E Pluribus, Unum
by RainEcho129
Summary: War is approaching the wizarding world - Imogen Waters, sixteen years old and lifelong friend of the Marauders, knows she was born to be called to arms. But as the skies darken and the ties that bond friends together are weakened, will her plight be all for nothing? OFC/Sirius Black. Not as dark as it appears. Formerly named "bittersweet, between my teeth".
1. The Knee Theory

"Sweetheart! It's time to go!"

Imogen Waters looked up at the sound of her mother's voice, and then at the red clock that hung over her door, and abruptly burst into a stream of rather creative cursewords. Some of which included the words 'canoe', 'dick' and a large helping of 'fuck'.

"Shiiiiiiiiiiiit," she hissed eloquently, tossing her creased paperback novel into her trunk. It landed with a _thud _amongst all the other, similarly-bound books of the trashy romantic nature that were crammed within the small space.

The suitcase was already fit to bursting: Imogen wasn't a very efficient packer, and her mum (the only other magical being in the family) refused to help, always mumbling something about _learning independence _and whatnot. Rubbish, fuelled by laziness, she thought.

She unfolded her stockings-clad legs from underneath her and tried to cram the trunk closed, forcing it down with one foot while she contorted herself into unnatural positions and reaching for the zip.

"Imogen?" her dad asked, appearing at her doorway, frowning at her as he munched on some toast. She darted a quick glance at him, before returning to be nose-to-nose with the voluptuous witch on the cover of _Cavorting with Centaurs. _

It was obvious as to who she got her organisation skills from, considering he was still in his pyjamas. His blonde hair, usually combed back, was sticking up in several cowlicks she knew he'd spend at least half an hour flattening later.

"Hi dad," she grunted ungracefully, "'sup?"

"Don't 'sup me." He replied. "You know all that teenage lingo confuses my brain." He waved his toast in emphasis, and a particularly jam-laden bit of it broke off and fell onto his toes.

"Yo, daddyo, what's the groovy?" Imogen strained out in between grunts, raising an eyebrow at the absolute horror that graced her dad's expression when he surveyed the remnants of his breakfast. She puffed and sucked in a breath through her nostrils, her fingers straining for the zip.

"You're making that up." He moaned pitifully, crouching to rescue the piece of toast.

"Probably."

"Alas," Imogen's dad cried, holding out the toast for her to inspect, "it seems to be covered in your stupid cat's hair."

Indeed, clinging to the piece of bread was several long strands of cat fur.

"Genghis Khan is _not _stupid," she retorted, grinning in triumph as her fingers closed round the elusive zip.

"You're only saying that out of _fear._"

"Dad."

"Yes?"

"Gengy is a precious, fluffy, white kitten named after a very ruthless historical figure. She's not scary."

"She's different when _you're _around." He mumbled, placing the toast back on the floor, presumably for Genghis Khan to eat later. Despite his (loudly-proclaimed) misgivings about the feline, not a day goes by without her dad 'accidentally' dropping food for her to find.

Imogen straightened as the zip _finally _slid into place, securing her trunk.

"Are you excited to go back to Pigboils?" He peered into the mirror mounted on her dresser, and frowned at his crumb-and-jam caked reflection. He patted his hair frantically to try and flatten it, but to no avail.

"_Hogwarts, _Dad."

"Pigboils is funnier." Her father said dismally, wiping jam from his chin.

"I think you're alone in that opinion."

"Ivy laughed."

"Ivy laughed when she was five years old and thought you were the funniest thing in the world, Dad."

He cast her an injured look. "I _am _the funniest thing in the world."

She smiled indulgently. "I know, Dad."

"I'll miss you, love." He came away from the mirror and set his hands upon her shoulders. His expression was, as it tended to be in regards to his oldest child, soft.

"I'll write, don't worry."

He nodded. "Make sure those Mirandas –"

"_Marauders_."

"Right. Make sure those Marauders look after you, alright?"

Imogen almost snorted at the idea of the four boys _looking after _her. Images of Sirius and James feeding her firewhiskey from a large jug flooded her vision, but she - wisely - decided not to share that particular piece of information with her overprotective father. In fact, her whole career at Hogwarts suddenly became a montage of general miscreancy in her mind's eye at that moment: memories of detentions, of letters to her parents disrupted mid-flight, of too much alcohol - Imogen tried not to giggle nervously.

The Marauders, _looking after _her. It was probably the other way round, but her father still saw her as the tiny eleven-year-old in robes too big for her, waving from a train window.

"'Course they will, Dad. You know James always looks out for me."

Which was sort of true, anyway. At least, he always - weirdly - insisted she put on a beanie when it was cold outside. Or, he jammed one over her head and pushed her through the portrait hole, anyway. Always had a good laugh when she tumbled through.

Her dad nodded, looking satisfied. "Good. Your mum's ready to go, she's waiting downstairs. She's done some diddly to the car so it'll go faster."

"Dad, just call it _magic._"

"Shan't."

"_Dad._"

Imogen rolled her eyes as her father, a man of forty-six years and the headmaster of a prestigious boys' school in London, stuck his fingers in his ears and began a loud chorus of "Happy Birthday".

It wasn't her birthday.

She sighed as he waltzed out of her room, stopping to shriek girlishly as Genghis Khan meowed innocently at him on her way to Imogen. He cast the kitten a suspicious glare as he walked down the stairs, continuing on his ridiculous singing.

Imogen bent to pick Gengy up around the middle, depositing the little ball of fluff in her coat pocket. From there, she peeped out over the dark material, her cute little nose doing the cute little wrinkly thing. Imogen cooed, stroking her head. "Who'd be scared of you?" she asked.

Gengy meowed in agreement. Or hunger. One couldn't be sure, with cats.

"IMOGEN," Ivy, her younger sister bellowed, "MUM'S GOING TO HAVE A FIT IF YOU DON'T HURRY."

"Merlin," Imogen muttered, grabbing her trunk and hurrying out the door.

Ivy was standing at the bottom of the stairs, twisting her riotous blonde curls, similar to Imogen's, into a sloppy bun. At fourteen, she was already taller than her older sister, was graced with the kind of curves that made her dad threaten to buy a gun, in order to shoot any 'gentlemen callers' that dared to pursue the younger Water lady.

She wore pink leggings cut off at the knee, and an oversized t-shirt. A purple yoga mat was tucked under her arm. "Make sure you fit some yoga in at Hogwarts," she reminded Imogen, "it's great for your bum."

What Ivy had in curves, Imogen lacked, being small in the tits and arse area. Apparently, yoga built up muscle in the legs and pushed up your bum, but she'd been doing it all summer, coupled with her running, and she hadn't seen any improvements yet. Still, she was flexible as hell now.

As proven by the tea fiasco last week, for which her dad was still stroppy about.

Imogen, charmed by her newly-found flexibility, had tried to put her dad's tea-bag in boiling hot water with only her toes and had subsequently tipped said boiling hot water onto her dad's shoes. He wasn't in them, of course, but the shoes were ruined and so was his mood.

Imogen had also inherited her dad's clumsiness.

"Will do," she assured her sister, frowning as she tugged the trunk down another step. She briefly became horrified at the prospect of it bursting open at King's Cross, and all her trashy novels spilling out for everyone to see.

"Make sure you write me, cow."

"Of course, bint."

They smiled fondly at each other.

"SWEETHEART." Their mother roared, from the front door. "HURRY OR WE'LL MISS THE TRAIN."

Ivy shared her mother's penchant for being loud.

"'Bye, love you both!" Imogen called, waving as she hurried towards her mum.

Ivy and her dad yelled back mumbled _'bye_s, the family having said their proper farewells the night before.

Mrs Waters was a medi-witch, tall and curvy as Ivy, with high cheekbones and a pretty smile. She was intelligent, resourceful, and completely bemused by her husband's antics. She wore a red coat and matching lipstick, her curly dark hair (Ivy and Imogen had gotten their blonde locks from their dad) pulled back into a ponytail.

"Come on!" she ushered Imogen out the door with flappy-hand gestures, tapping the trunk with her wand to make it feather-light.

"Oh, _now _you help," Imogen remarked.

"Don't sass me, sweetheart." Her mum replied, hoisting the trunk into the car's boot. It made worryingly loud rattling noises, swayed, and then was still.

"I wasn't _sassing_-"

"Sass."

"Mum."

"Ssh, too much sass." Mrs Waters hummed as she slid into the drivers' seat. She started the engine, and flipped open her handy little notebook of directions on muggle life, presumably checking her husband's instructions on how to drive to King's Cross.

Imogen rolled her eyes, and settled back in her seat. Gengy poked her head from her pocket, mewling.

"Another school year begins, Gengy."

*.*

"'Bye, sweetheart!" Mrs Waters called as she made her way back to platform 9 and ¾. "Make sure you write!"

"'Bye, mum!" Imogen called back, peering through the thick throng of relatives and students to wave at her mother.

Soon, Mrs Waters had disappeared, and Imogen turned back to face the massive crimson body of the Hogwarts Express.

It never failed to strike her with a sense of awe, did the train. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, all glowing metal and vivacious with magic. It didn't hurt that she associated many good memories with it, either. Five years (not counting this one) of travelling to and from her cherished Hogwarts' School for Witchcraft and Wizardry with her friends and peers made it one of her favourite places to be.

Imogen grunted, vastly attractively, as she pushed her trunk into one of the carrier compartments. The spell making it weightless had worn off, leaving her with what seemed like a suitcase full of bricks. She had a feeling her mum had done that on purpose. Somehow, she managed, and the trunk remained intact.

She had just lugged it into the storage space, her forehead red and sweaty, when someone coughed behind her. She turned, coming face-to-face with the one-and-only (in his opinion) James Potter.

"James!" Imogen cried, grinning widely.

"Immy!" he cried back, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose. His hair was perfectly unkempt, sticking up in wild clumps, and he smiled at her with a sort of cocky ease that seemed to be common amongst the Marauders. Perhaps they all took a course. _How to be a likeable rogue in ten easy steps, _or something of the sort.

He'd grown over the summer, she noticed. He seemed sharper; that childhood roundness now completely gone from his features. Taller, too, and broader in the shoulders. His clothes were rumpled, the crisp white shirt he wore under his coat untucked, and his shoelaces untied. All of it, she suspected, had been carefully done so that the leader of the infamous Marauders looked as close to a scoundrel as possible without appearing unattractive.

The small gaggle of third-year girls standing a little way off behind him, each with adoring expressions, were a testament to the fact that he had succeeded.

She dropped the grin. "_Immy?_" she asked.

He pouted. "Evans gets to call you Immy."

"_Lily _has called me Immy since we were eleven. You've only ever called me Imogen, Gen, or Waters. Stick to that."

"Not fair." He grumbled, running his hands through his hair. "Not fair at all."

Imogen laughed. "Help me find a compartment?"

"No."

"Why not?" she whined.

"You're mean."

"I'm really not."

James opened his mouth to argue, then closed it abruptly. He squinted at her face, then peered at her legs. His expression was critical. The group of girls sighed enviously at the attention he paid to her stockinged calves. Imogen rolled her eyes at his antics. James was one of her closest friends, had been since she'd accidentally spilled pumpkin juice on Remus in her first year and James had dumped an entire goblet-full on her head in revenge, sparking a food fight that lasted two hours, resulted in a months' worth of detention and a solid friendship. However, he could be a right idiot sometimes. Many a telling-off from McGonagall had resulted from various schemes that James had managed to involve her in, somehow.

"Oi," she said indignantly, "eyes up, mate."

"You've done something." He replied, still eyeing her knees.

She looked down at herself. What she was wearing- stockings, boots, warm coat- was no different to her usual outfit. Her boots _were _relatively new, though, a gift for her sixteenth birthday. Maybe that was it.

"My boots are new." She informed him, proudly, and he shook his head.

"That's not it."

"My knees look like little faces are trying to get out of my skin?"

"No, something _new_."

Imogen punched him on the shoulder. "I was joking!"

He looked up from his deliberation to give her a cursory frown. "Ow, you're so_ violent._"

"You think my knees look like little faces!"

"Well, yeah! They do!" James cried, rubbing his shoulder.

"They do _not_."

"They do. The left one looks angry and the right one looks upset about something. Dunno about what, though." He wrinkled his brow and pouted, apparently deep in thought.

"Maybe," Imogen said darkly, "_someone _told them that their knees looked like _faces!_"

James scoffed. "Don't be daft," he chortled, "knees don't have knees."

"I'm going to curse off your manly bits –"

"Wahey there," Sirius Black said, pushing past a few fifth year boys to join them, "what's this I hear about manly bits?"

As always, the only member of the Black family in Gryffindor looked effortlessly handsome. He wore mostly muggle clothing, like James, only he wore scuffed jeans and a white shirt under a leather jacket, his dark hair falling messily into his eyes, and a roguish grin. Merlin, _he'd _grown over the summer, too. Was that another secret boy thing she wasn't privy to? Or was she the only one who had to remain _stunted_?

"I'm about to hex off James'." Imogen informed him, bumping her shoulder with his in a way of greeting. Or as near to his shoulder as she could, considering she was about a foot shorter than him. As it was, she kind of bumped his bicep.

"Why?" he asked, bumping back.

Sirius had become her friend by association around the same time James had, dropping into the seat next to her during Transfiguration the day after the food-fight, grinning his lopsided grin and offering her some Honeydukes chocolate. Apparently, she'd been labelled as 'a groovy kind of chick' by James (who had been keeping up with the muggle lingo), and thus worthy as a friend. Of course, he hadn't really needed to say much after she'd whipped the chocolate from his grasp and wolfed it down in one bite.

"He said my knees looked like little faces." she cried indignantly, but he only grinned.

"Ah, yes, the knee theory."

"What the bloody hell is the _knee theory?_" Imogen demanded, her voice rising. She folded her arms and glared at him in a way that had been dubbed _the look _by James.

Disappointingly, Sirius didn't look scared. At all. If anything, his expression was amused. "Well, James here reckons that your knees look… what was it?" he turned to his best friend.

"Angry and upset."

"That's the one. Angry and upset. Or two," he added, "if you want to get technical."

"You absolute bastards." Imogen shrieked, causing James to wince. He, at least, was not immune to _the look_. "Who else knows about this?"

"Nobody!" Sirius replied, perhaps a little too quickly. "Nobody _at all_."

She narrowed her eyes at them. "Really." She said flatly.

"Yup."

"Mhm."

Imogen sighed, and reached out to pull them towards the train. They didn't protest, being used to her habit of sort of nudging people to where she wanted them to be. Imogen was of tiny stature, and using the two six-foot-something boys as human shields to get through crowds was something of a tradition, anyway.

She hooked her fingers in their sleeves, steering them up the stairs and onto the Hogwarts Express. It was five to eleven, and they still had to find their other friends – plus, a compartment to house all of them.

"Can you see the others?" she asked, standing on her tiptoes to try and see past the boys' shoulders.

"Noooo," James replied, peering unashamedly into other students' compartments. They stared back, astonished, as he pressed his nose to the glass. He gave each of them a demented smile, crossing his eyes.

"James." Imogen nudged him, and he craned his neck to look at her. "What are you doing?"

"Scaring the first-years."

"That's not scary, that's just odd."

"Like _you _could do any better."

"I could!"

"Yeah," Sirius chuckled, "if I lifted you up to see over the ledge."

"I'm not _that _small." Imogen huffed.

Sirius raised an eyebrow at her.

"I can still hex you into Christmas." She muttered, as he reached down to pat her head.

"So cute," he said to James, who nodded sagely.

"Adorable."

"I hate you both," she hissed, and pushed them forwards.

As they moved down the long corridor in search of their friends, Imogen had time to survey the mix of students (she _could _see over the window ledge, thank you very much Sirius Black) that sat in their compartments or filtered through the doors and into their path.

Slytherins sat together, huddled in small groups but always sparing them a mocking glance, identifiable by their hostile expressions and expensive clothes. They sent the two Marauders a scathing look, especially Severus Snape (whom James and Sirius sneered at in return, uncharacteristically malicious), then returned to their discussions.

Imogen glared back, holding the gaze of Mulciber in particular – they'd formed a highly potent animosity ever since third year, often culminating in nasty hexes and quick-muttered curses. Snape ignored her, for the most part, as he did with the majority of Lily's friends. She twisted her mouth in a grimace; she was conflicted about that boy. He was Lily's best childhood friend, her confidante, but ever since that moment the previous year - _I don't need help from a filthy little mudblood like her _- she knew she couldn't trust him. Still, the beginnings of pity stirred in her gut when she regarded his miserable expression, his deep-sunken eyes.

"Bastards." Sirius remarked, waving mockingly at the Slytherin sixth-years.

"Arseholes." James agreed.

Imogen pushed them on, her tangled mane of hair falling into her eyes every few seconds. She blew a puff of air, trying to move it out the way. As they walked, she asked the boys about their summers – although there wasn't much to tell, considering she'd written to them almost every week.

James' letters were always brilliant, full of funny stories and his familiar scrawled hand-writing. He didn't really follow any kind of format: the margins were often covered in side-notes and little doodles of Quidditch paraphernalia, and sometimes he would stop mid-sentence to recount a fond memory. Mostly, he whined about Lily Evans and how little attention she paid to him, which was endlessly amusing.

His last letter before Imogen had seen him had been particularly entertaining:

_Dear Waters, _it had read.

_I hope you're well. Same goes for your family- say hi to your dad for me, tell him that the Cannons lost _another _match, the bastards. All my love to your beautiful mother, of course, and tell your sister to drop me a note when she's sixteen._

_Joking, Waters, don't give me the look. My heart belongs to Evans._

_Speaking of the minx herself – has she mentioned me at all?_

And that set the tone for the rest of his letter.

Sirius, however, tended to keep with their tradition they'd begun the summer after first year. Not knowing what to talk about, and after a few letters of rather boring scribblings about their day, Sirius had decided to play a Muggle game he'd heard about called twenty questions. She suspected it had been more of a rebellion in the face of his parents than anything - a proverbial _fuck you _to the fascist figures he lived with.

His letters often went like this:

_Waters – _

_What would you do if money wasn't a problem?_

_Favourite music?_

_Favourite movie?_

_Why do you wear clothes that are too big for you?_

Et cetera, et cetera.

It was an odd friendship, really. They only ever talked about anything _important, _or personal, through pen and ink. Where James and Imogen could talk for hours about anything (a bizarre example would be when they had idly wondered how much noise a duck would make falling from one hundred feet onto grass), Sirius seemed to avoid heavy subjects with her. Despite the fact they had been friends for almost five years, they had never engaged in in-depth conversations – at least not face-to-face. Even then, Imogen never dared to ask him questions that went beyond his favourite pastime.

But, it wasn't as if she didn't trust him. She did, with her life. The other Marauders, too. In fact, all her friends had earned her trust over the years. She knew that, if the moment arose, they would trust her with their lives too. But it was a kind of faith in them that was borne from years spent going through the same motions, the same sense of camaraderie one received from being sorted into the same house. You didn't have to _know _your family to have their back.

"Oi! Waters!" Augustus King, a fellow sixth-year Gryffindor with whom she'd been best friends with since the train ride in first year, stuck his head out from two compartments ahead and grinned at her.

"Gus!" she waved, and steered Sirius and James towards his beckoning hand.

"We've been waiting for you lot," he scolded as they entered.

Tall and lanky as all buggery, Augustus often teased Imogen for her height, albeit good-naturedly. That was perhaps what best described him: good-natured. He was incredibly easy-going, gifted with social graces that ensured he got along with almost _everybody, _even the Professors. He had smatterings of freckles across both cheeks and the bridge of his nose, big blue eyes, and a wide mouth.

"Sorry, Gus. These two held me up." Imogen replied, to the mock outrage of James and Sirius.

Inside the compartment sat Remus Lupin, tired-looking but kind as always, nervously waving Peter Pettigrew, and Ravenclaw sixth-year Samantha Jones.

Samantha, or Sammy as she was more often referred to as, was as popular as Gus was in terms of friendliness. She was closer to Remus than any of the other Marauders, being a bit too timid for their liking, with a fondness for hiding behind books and her dark hair. Imogen and she had met in second-year DADA, and had been good friends ever since. She wasn't especially outgoing, but possessed a gentle kindness that put many people she encountered at ease.

"Hullo, lads and ladies," Sirius crowed, plopping down in the seat next to Remus, "you've all had good summers, I hope?"

A chorus of _yeah, s'alright_s and _not too bad_s erupted at this, with the lot of them animatedly waving their arms about and quizzing each other. As was custom, they all started chatting at the same time, interjecting into different conversations left and right, or simply spouting a monologue, without paying any mind as to the noise they were making.

"Padfoot 'n me went to a muggle pub, it was _great._"

"Yeah, my mum's a bit better, thanks for asking. Still on the peaky side, mind."

"D'you reckon the trolley lady'll give me a few sickles off on a chocolate frog? I've got my eye on Bathilda Bagshot, I haven't got her yet."

"My knees don't look like little faces, do they?"

"Is that a _cat _in your pocket?"

"I read Jane Eyre over the summer, you're right, it _was _brilliant."

"Met this blonde bird, from Australia. Her _accent_, mate, it was gorgeous."

"We got bloody _wankered, _I woke up in a dress!"

"My cousin loves that book, she made me read it last year."

"I only have eleven sickles…"

"Maybe if I just stand with my knees slightly bent… Ha! Brilliant."

"It is, it's a bloody cat!"

"So… you don't like it?"

"She had a wicked sense of humour, and a bloody _tan_. Golden brown skin…"

" – and there was lipstick _all over my –_"

" – no, it's a great book, a bit long –"

" – she's always liked me –"

" – oh, nope. They still look like faces –"

" – when did you get a cat? –"

" – but the descriptions –"

" – she's going to write to me –"

" – Pads here, ever the ladies' man –"

" – too many ejaculations –"

" – and I wanted a pumpkin pasty, too –"

" – has anyone else heard about the knee theory –"

" – I can't believe you didn't tell me you had a cat –"

" – I am no bird, and no net ensnares me –"

" – and we'll have little bush ranger children and they'll go to school via kangaroo –"

" – three dwarves, a transvestite and her pet goat challenged us to a game of charades –"

" – Mister Rochester's a bit of a twat, though –"

" – I'm bloody broke, could you lend us some money –"

" – I'll ask old Sluggie, he'll tell me –"

" – it's staring at me, Waters –"

" – the whole fortune-teller business was a tad strange –"

" – _Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda_ –"

"Immy, are you – oh." Lily Evans slid open the compartment door, interrupting the cacophony and causing James to practically leap out of his seat.

"Evans!" he proclaimed, grinning and running his hands through his hair. "Good summer?"

"Yes, thank you." she replied tersely, pressing her lips together.

Lily looked pretty as always, her thick red hair brushed and falling into perfect waves over her shoulder. She wore high-waisted jeans that clung to her curves, showing off her long legs, and a knitted jumper, the sleeves of which she'd pushed up to her elbows in the warmth of the Hogwarts Express. The outfit, although simple, looked like something out of a fashion magazine when it was on her petite frame. She surveyed James coolly, her emerald eyes critical and her eyebrow raised.

There was a beat of silence.

James gave a gasp of mock injury. "Aren't you going to ask me about _my _summer, Evans?"

"No." she replied rudely.

He clasped his hand to his heart, leaning against the window for support. "_Why?_"

Imogen rolled her eyes as his bum invaded the space around her head, wiggling dramatically. She cringed and leaned away from it, much to the others' amusement. Peter, who was seated next to her, put a pudgy hand over her eyes, murmuring something about _protecting her virtue. _She scoffed at him and he gave her a timid smile.

Lily sighed. "Because, Potter, you sent me about a hundred letters telling me _all about it_."

"I like to keep my future-girlfriends informed."

Lily ignored this, instead folding her arms and fixing him with a dark frown. "How did you even get my address, Potter?"

James grinned loftily. "I have my sources," he said, with a shifty sort of air.

Lily cast her sharp glare onto Imogen, who smiled sheepishly. "It was Immy, wasn't it?"

James deflated. "How do you _do_ that?"

"Immy!" The red-haired girl exclaimed, betrayal written over her pretty features.

"He threatened to steal my knickers again!" Imogen exclaimed.

Remus choked on the chocolate he always seemed to have in steady supply, sputtering out a shaky "_What?_" Out of all the Marauders, he was the most prudish, and tended to not respond kindly to description of his friends' underwear.

"I wasn't being serious." James said defensively. "I wouldn't _touch _your knickers –"

"You already have! Fourth year, hanging from the Astronomy Tower. Hence, the _again._"

"Those were yours?" Sammy exclaimed. "Huh."

"Yeah, but that was back when they were pink and normal."

Imogen raised her eyebrows, mouth open. "As opposed to _what_?"

He fidgeted. "L… lacy."

Gus burst into laughter. "_Lacy? _Ooh, Waters, you _slag._"

"Shut up, King!"

"And black. Lacy and black."

"JAMES."

"Double whammy!" Gus crowed. "Black _and _lacy! The ultimate slag-fest."

"At least there's no thongs." Sirius commented dryly, flashing a wolfish grin.

"How would you know?" Imogen replied archly.

He merely grinned wider, interlacing his fingers and placing them behind his head.

"ANYWAY," Lily interrupted, just as Imogen was ready to draw her wand and perform a rather vicious hex (she was quite well-known for her penchant for the Nostril Sticker, a curse that sealed the nasal passages closed with mucous for a minimum of four hours), "I was just popping in to ask Immy about her summer."

"It was lovely, thanks." she replied, taking her hand away from her wand, much to Sirius' relief.

"How's Gengy?"

"Oh!" Imogen pulled the kitten from her pocket, much to the surprise of everyone – for magical beings, they were amazingly unused to animals being pulled out of various items of clothing – except for Sirius (who had spotted it earlier), and deposited her on her lap. "She's good."

"Ohhh," Sammy breathed, leaning forward from her seat on the other side of Remus, "she's _adorable._"

Gengy mewled smugly as the dark-haired girl petted her carefully with one finger.

"Gengy?" Peter queried.

"Short for Genghis Khan."

At this, Lily let loose a tiny giggle that sounded like wind-chimes. James looked as if he was about to fall over, his eyes glazed. Smitten, that one.

"Genghis… Khan." Remus muttered, his brow creased. "I've heard that before."

"He's a muggle, isn't he?" Sammy asked.

"Dunno," Sirius replied, and reached forward to give the cat a stroke.

Immediately, she hissed and made a swipe at him, and he pulled his hand back abruptly.

"Bloody _hell_," he blurted, cradling his injured fingers, "she's exactly like you, Waters."

"Oi!" Imogen retorted, gathering poor Gengy back into the depths of her coat, where she purred contentedly.

Sammy slid back into her seat, disappearing behind another thick book. Peter giggled nervously.

Lily emitted another gusty sigh at their antics, and beckoned to Remus. "We've got Prefect duty, Lupin. Come on. Oh, and Potter?"

"Yes, dearest?" he replied, smiling in a way he probably thought was winning, but only served to make him look a tad demented.

"I really don't care about your Quidditch escapades. Please stop writing to me."

James only sat back down after they had left, collapsing down next to Imogen. Or, partly on top of her, as he with his gangly limbs was wont to do. She shifted, uncomfortable underneath one of his arms. He sighed, his expression wistful. "She will love me."

"How'd you reckon that, mate?" Gus asked wryly, brushing his reddish-brown hair back from his forehead.

"I wrote about my Quidditch in my second-last letter."

"And…?" Peter pressed.

"_That means she read at least one!_ Last year – _last _year – she sent them all back! I, my friends," he declared, brandishing one finger in the air, "am in with a chance!"

"Sure mate," Sirius said, reaching over to pat James' shoulder, "even if it's a slim one."

*.*

Imogen sat in between Remus and James, opposite Sirius, and chugged down a goblet-full of pumpkin juice to the rhythmic thuds of their fists hitting the table.

"Scull! Scull! Scull!" They chanted, as she downed the last of it.

She set down the cup with a bang, throwing her arms in the air as the Marauders and several other sixth-year Gryffindors cheered. "How long?" she asked Peter, breathlessly.

He frowned at the small pocket-watch Remus had transfigured for him, having bagsed being the time-keeper. "Twenty-two seconds. Four down from last year!"

She cheered again, high-fiving James and wiping away the remnants of juice that had escaped the goblet from her mouth.

The Chugging, as Peter had dubbed it, was something of a tradition at every Sorting Feast that had sparked from the infamous food fight between her and James. So far, her personal best had been exactly twenty seconds in her third year- but there was always time for improvement.

"Gentlemen," Imogen began grandly, waving her goblet in the air, "today, I have _chugged, _and it was _beautiful._"

The air was filled with resounding _hear hear_s, and the sound of glasses clinking. James slung an arm over her shoulders, wiping away a fake tear. "Gen, I am _so proud_," he gasped, biting his lip.

"Thanks, dearest." She patted his cheek, giving an exaggerated hair-flick. "I do try."

Peter giggled hysterically, covering his face with both hands at their capers.

The only person not smiling was Sirius, who was eyeing her sleeve suspiciously. She sighed.

"Gengy's upstairs with my other things, Black. Don't worry about it."

"Your cat is evil." He said venomously. "It… stares."

"Oh, she _stares, _does she? How awful. I'll get rid of her right now." Imogen said flatly, rolling her eyes.

"Turn the sass down a notch, Waters. Wouldn't want to strain yourself," he shot back, frowning at her lack of concern for his well-being.

"I am _not_ –"

"Say, Immy," James asked, cutting her off, "is Genghis Khan… _enamoured _to animals of the, ah, _canine_ persuasion?" He propped his chin on his fist, batting his eyelashes at her.

She leaned away from him, frowning. "Uh, no. She isn't. Hates them."

Remus snorted into his glass of water, slopping the liquid down his front.

"What?" she asked.

He shook his head, taking the napkin that Peter offered him and trying his best to mop up the wetness of his shirt. "Nothing, Imogen."

She narrowed her eyes. Remus had a habit of switching back to full names when he was nervous. "Lupin," she warned, and gave him _the look_. "Please tell me this isn't going to somehow land me in detention."

He laughed, albeit nervously. "Seriously, Gen," he reassured, "'s nothing."

"Right." Imogen said, and left it.

Judging from the expression on her friend's face – the fading smile – it was nothing to do with her. She was no stranger to the fact that Remus had secrets, awful ones, none of which she was privy to. She wasn't _stupid, _for Merlin's sake. She'd seen the scars that littered his body, the kind of dependency with which he clung to his friends, particularly the Marauders. She knew his problems ran far deeper than his mother's health.

However, she also saw the way he lit up as soon as he was with them, as if all his worries had simply vanished in their wake, and it was enough for her. She didn't need to know, wasn't even sure if she _wanted _to, and seeing one of her closest friends find solace was satisfactory enough.

Imogen and Remus hadn't actually become friends when she'd accidentally spilled that pumpkin juice on him almost five years ago. In fact, it was only halfway through the first year, after many awkward encounters when Sirius and James had waltzed off, leaving her and the timid boy to make conversation, that they had decided to get to know each other.

After that, they realised that they'd had their love for books in common (despite the fact that Imogen was able to devour almost anything, while Remus had very _refined _taste), and their unhealthy respect for chocolate. It was a wonder they both weren't rolling around the castle, actually, with the amount of sweets they both put away.

"Oi, arseholes," Gus stage-whispered from a little way down the table, "Dumbledore's speeching, shut your faces."

Imogen went to roll her eyes, but they were too sore from all the eye-rolling she was subjected to by this stage so she stuck her tongue out at him instead.

"Welcome!" Dumbledore began, his magically magnified voice echoing throughout the Great Hall. "Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts!"

He was dressed in finery, his robes a brilliant shade of periwinkle and his matching hat standing straight and tall. His long, silvery-white hair was long and luxuriant, his half-moon spectacles twinkling merrily in the candlelight. He clasped his hands together, a wide grin stretched across his mouth, almost from ear-to-ear.

All at once, Imogen felt a sense of calm and serenity settle amongst her fellow peers, almost as tangible and as much a physical presence as James sitting beside her.

"I am glad to see that you are all well as can be. Congratulations to all the first-years who are sorted and fed, I wish you a wonderful _good luck _on your journey through this marvellous school!"

A cough from McGonagall diverted his attention for a moment. "Ah," he said, "if I do say so myself. Now, for announcements, a new Muggle Studies teacher will _also _be embarking upon a journey with us. I hope his fresh approach and contagious zeal will be a lovely influence upon us all. Please give a warm welcome to Professor Cumberstone!"

Murmurs from the Slytherin table came in place from applause. None of them wanted to welcome the new Professor for _Muggle _Studies. Or at least, none of them wanted to in front of the Junior Death Eaters: Bellatrix Black, Narcissa Black and her fiancée (ugh) Lucius Malfoy, Mulciber and Avery. Not to forget Regulus Black, in the younger years – Sirius' brother – but everyone seemed to anyway.

There were a fair few others that Imogen was wary of, ones that had greeted her in the hallways with curt nods before the end of fifth year, but now were game enough to hiss _half-breed _or _mudblood_ behind her back.

Snape took no part in the murmurings, instead staring moodily at his hands. His greasy hair and too-small robes made him stick out like a sore thumb in amongst the finery of the Pureblood families, but there was no denying he'd been able to climb the discriminative ladder into abstract respect. Didn't seem to make him any happier, though.

Imogen turned her thoughts and her gaze away from the Slytherin table just as Professor Cumberstone stood from his place at the teachers' table.

A collective gasp went up from the female population (and a few from the male) of Hogwarts, as possibly the best-looking man Imogen had _ever _seen (and she hung out with the Marauders on a regular basis) gave a small grin and a shy wave at the rapidly-increasing-in-volume applause.

"Merlin's _tits_," she sighed, ignoring the odd looks the others gave her, "I want his address so I can send his parents flowers."

Professor Cumberstone was tall, not overly muscular but with the strong shoulders and narrow hips of a swimmer. He was lean, with a sharp jawline and aristocratic features, and curly dark hair that flopped in the _perfect _way over one of his eyes. The colour of which, she couldn't see, but she was _damned _glad she'd taken Muggle Studies that year, and knew she'd probably find out later.

He wore Muggle clothing, instead of the robes and hat that teachers usually favoured, with dark dress pants and a crisp white shirt tucked in, showing off his svelte figure. To make matters worse, the shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He looked adorably embarrassed, scratching the tip of his nose with one, long finger and staring at the ground.

"_Immy,_" Lily mouthed at her from down the table, widening her eyes. "He's beautiful!"

"I _know_," Imogen mouthed back, and ignored James' huff of irritation from behind her.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Hm, thank you." he began, his voice tinged with amusement. "Settle down now, please. Yes, thank you, all. Before you all return to your dormitories, I would like to address more… _serious_ matters."

A hush fell over the Great Hall. No-one had been blind to the dark goings-on that plagued Muggle villages and towns, festering within the deepest corners of Pureblood families. Imogen had kept well-informed by her mum, who liked to read both the Muggle newspaper and the _Daily Prophet, _and was obviously wary of the suspicious and downright horrific activities taken on by Purebloods, particularly those of Slytherin heritage.

She shared a glance with Sirius, whose expression had become dark and brooding. He never reacted well to reminders of his family's crimes.

"As you all know, the idea of Pureblood supremacy has become increasingly popular, particularly amongst those of that heritage." Dumbledore's eyes strayed towards the Slytherin table, where Lucius Malfoy stared back at him.

Imogen couldn't see much of his expression, but his ramrod posture and nose in the air ensure her it was a smug one.

"In the words of the great Mark Twain, 'if you should ever find yourself on the side of the majority, step back, and reconsider'. Students, teachers, friends; I warn you – the establishment is not always right. Social norms are not always virtues. Question things; and before you think outside the box, know every inch of the box, and then construct your own exit."

"Did the Headmaster just tell us, basically, to _stick it to the man_?" Gus whispered, and Imogen shushed him.

Dumbledore's words struck a chord within her. They resounded in her heart and head, filled her with a sense of longing, a tingling excitement- and most of all, _purpose. _

Both of Imogen's parents were avid supporters of equality – they'd even met campaigning for civil rights in the fifties, when they were just seventeen – and had always encouraged her and her sister to fight against all forms of discrimination and injustices in society.

_Construct your own exit. _

She'd always dreamed of becoming a great fighter for civil rights, someone like Germaine Greer or Rosa Parks, a speaker like MLK Junior, someone who could bring thousands to their feet with the force of their passions. She knew, of course, that probably wouldn't happen.

She was a sixteen-year-old girl who, although was good in a pickle, didn't have the gift of leadership that James or Remus or even _Sirius _was gifted with. People didn't respect her like they respected Lily or fear her like they did Marlene McKinnon.

She was that short friend of the Marauders, the half-blood.

Imogen grit her teeth at that last thought. Who bloody _cared _if she was half-blood? Who bloody _gave a flying fuck _about blood status? She certainly didn't, and it wasn't _fair. _All that discrimination was just not _fair. _It made her blood boil.

She wanted to fight. Against the Death Eaters, and their crazy dictator of a leader. She wanted to do everything in her power to stop them. In that moment, she would have given her _life. _She wasn't sure if it was the sense of glory brought to her by Dumbledore's inspiring words, or the swelling of Gryffindor pride in her chest, but she was sure: she would die for the cause, if she had to. The friction between what _was _and what _should be _revved her up, drove her gaze forward and her spine straight.

And, right there and then, her eyes met Sirius' across the table.

He looked exactly as she did: frustrated, angry, helpless.

She knew, right then, that he was thinking the same things she was.

"That is all." Dumbledore finished, before clasping his hands together again. "Off to bed now, lickety split."

As they stood, Sirius' eyes were still on hers. The molten grey of them seemed to pulsate with intensity, turning to mercury right in front of her. He knew what she was thinking.

Imogen swallowed, and looked away, breaking whatever weird connection was going on. This wasn't her and Sirius' _area, _not at all – they were of a somewhat shallow friendship, never going deeper.

It was all teasing and jokes, outside their letters. Neither of them was entirely comfortable with anything other than that, and it was _fine._

And that was how it was going to stay.


	2. Into My Own Arse

"WATERS!"

Imogen stopped in her tracks, turning quickly to face whoever was calling her.

Gus ran towards her, his face red and chest heaving. He was not the most athletic of chaps, being more suited to loping around the castle at a slow, easy pace. However, his breathing could have been restricted by the apple in his mouth. "Merlin," he panted, taking the fruit from his lips, once he reached her. "What's got _your _lacy black knickers in such a knot?"

"Nothing," she retorted, ignoring the comment about her knickers, "I'm just excited for classes, is all."

She turned and started walking again at a brisk pace, stuffing her timetable into her bag before he could see it. She'd practically punched the air over breakfast when she'd realised what subject she had first, eliciting odd glances from the younger years and a "stop it you mad bird, I'm _tired_" from Remus.

"But," Gus said, "you're _never _excited for classes on the first day."

She shot him a grin, quickening her walk. "You must be mistaken, my good man, for I _love _classes on the first day. I long for them all summer."

He regarded her with intense suspicion, squinting and pulling a face. "Hang on!" he said brightly, after a moment. "What classes _exactly _have you got now?"

"Potions." Imogen blurted out, and this was her first mistake.

"WRONG," Gus sang, having regained his energy, "YOU _HATE _POTIONS."

He waved a finger in front of her face before she batted it away. She tucked a strand of curly hair that had _already _fallen out, much to her irritation. "No, _James _hates Potions. I _love _Potions. Wonderful subject, it is, with all its stirring and…" she motioned with her hand, twirling the index finger, "stirring."

"No no," Gus exclaimed, "I remember _very clearly _you telling me that you hated Potions with… what was it? Oh yeah, _the force of a thousand suns._"

Imogen grumbled something to herself that sounded like she was cursing his good memory.

"In fact," he went on, "since you're never _this _excited for your other classes, and the arrival of that new bloke has got your loins all hot and bothered –"

"_Ew, _King, that's –"

" – _I'd _say you've got Muggle Studies!" he finished, grinning at her smugly.

She rolled her eyes (they had recuperated since the previous night), and relented. "Yeah, I've got Muggle Studies first thing." She muttered, elbowing him in the ribs when he erupted in a fountain of _I told you so_s.

"Ow, _Merlin_," Gus whined, rubbing his side.

"Sorry, my arm slipped." Imogen grinned, as she came to a halt outside her designated classroom. "See you in Defence, yeah?"

"WHATEVS." Gus yelled, striding away from her. "I DON'T CARE."

She laughed and opened the door, slipping into the Muggle Studies class just as other students were beginning to walk down the halls. She was early, of course, and as she entered Professor Cumberstone looked up from his desk.

Oh, Merlin, he was even more gorgeous up close.

"Hello," he said quietly, his voice a smooth baritone.

"Morning." She said back, and thankfully her voice didn't falter or shake or anything else ridiculously stereotypical of a teenage girl. Why _was _that a stereotype? She didn't know any teenage girls who did that. Aaaand her mind was wandering.

_Focus._

He was looking at her, still, lovely green eyes (_sigh_) twinkling. _Make conversation! _A voice said, and she hurriedly cleared her throat. "Excited to start?"

She looked round the room. It hadn't changed much since the previous year; it still contained only sixteen desks, four rows of two on each side, and the walls were still plastered with Muggle movie posters. They were unmoving, of course, which had been a great source of bafflement to many Hogwarts students, whom were unused to the subjects of photographs remaining where they were supposed to. It had been a great day for Imogen, walking in to see the Marauders (minus Remus, of course) attempting to sweet-talk the images into moving. Lots of _please, darling_s from James and even a famously smouldering Sirius Black wink, but to no avail.

"Oh," he chuckled, and rubbed his jaw nervously, "I _was, _and then Albus – oh, sorry –Professor Dumbledore made that speech…"

"A tad dismal, wasn't it?"

He laughed. "Just a bit."

"I think you'll be fine, sir. You're doing something good, after all. Knowing the box before you step outside it, and all that." She smiled at him reassuringly, masking the fact that her palms were sweating and hot _damn _was he a beautiful specimen.

Cumberstone let a slightly more content smile grace his features. "Yes, thank you… that's quite helpful, actually. Er, what was your name?"

Imogen smiled. "Imogen, sir. Imogen Waters."

"Ah, yes, I've heard of you." he said easily, sliding his hands in his pockets.

She started. "Me?" She asked, bewildered, trying to keep her gaze level with his and _not _drop down to the rather tight pants he wore.

He nodded. "I was chatting with Professor Slughorn, earlier. He seems quite taken by your skills with hexes."

"I, ah, might have gotten a few Slytherins with some Nostril-Stickers." She said, then immediately shut her mouth. What was she doing, telling a _teacher _about this? And _damn Slughorn, _she thought, for bloody choosing _that moment _in fifth year to walk out of his classroom, just as she was hexing Mulciber and Avery for calling her a blood traitor.

To his credit, he only laughed, short and sharp – then clamped one hand over his mouth. "Merlin, shouldn't find that so funny." He said sheepishly. "But yeah, you've gotten yourself a bit of a reputation for your wand-work, Miss Waters."

"I hope that wasn't an innuendo," Sirius Black said breezily as he strode in through the door. "Because _that _would be inappropriate."

Imogen started. Sirius took _Muggle Studies? _

He grinned as he came to a stop beside her, dropping a roguish eyebrow-waggle, as was his custom. He already looked like he'd spent an hour inside a broom closet; his hair ruffled, tie loosened, lips red. She tried not to break out into hives; being in the same room as _two _impossibly good-looking souls, and having one of them be his usual flirtatious self, was proving too much for her loins. They _burned._

Cumberstone sputtered adorably, turning bright red. Merlin, even _that _suited him. He opened and closed his mouth, seemingly grasping for words, before settling on. "N-no, I was merely telling Miss Waters here that her _spell_-work is seen as admirable."

"Ah." Sirius said, waltzing to one of the desks. "Of course, sir." He settled down at it, dumping his bag on the ground next to him. He leaned back in the chair, interlaced his fingers and placed them behind his head. He surveyed them both with a lazy smirk.

He managed to make the _of course _sound like a mockery, and Imogen registered the faint desire to curse his balls off, amidst the appreciation for his biceps.

_Calm thyself, heathen, _she hissed mentally. Where was this coming from? Why now?

"Water's pretty good in a duel." He said, which was a complete lie.

Well, in the sense that he'd never even _seen _her duel. She was actually rather proud of her skills in Defence.

Cumberstone cleared his throat, clearly at unease.

"Ah, thank you, sir, but I'm afraid _Black _here is… flattering me." She said, and he smiled again.

"And I'm afraid you're being too modest, but it doesn't matter. I'm sure it won't come up much in Muggle Studies." He flashed a charming grin, standing up from his desk to straighten one of the posters.

"Probably not."

Imogen plopped her things on the desk next to Sirius (at the very back, she regretted), effectively ending her conversation with the new professor. "I hate you," she hissed at him.

Sirius only gave her a smug grin in return. "Hello to you _too_, Waters."

"Mind telling me what exactly you're playing at?"

He shrugged. "Can't I compliment a mate?" he asked, and she didn't like the way he pronounced the word _mate, _like it was something pointed.

"Don't play innocent, Black. You're acting weird."

He gave a shark's smile, dead-eyed and brewing with the beginnings of what was likely one of his tempers. She recognised the signs; bitter, mocking. "And _you're _being a nosey bint. Mind buggering off?"

She was about to give a sharp retort when the rest of the class filed in, chatting loudly and laughing.

Among them was Mary MacDonald and Alice Prewett, fellow Gryffindor girls. They saw her and waved, making their way over.

"Hiya," Alice greeted them brightly, "didn't get a chance to chat with you last night. Y'alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Nice summer with Frank?" Imogen asked, just as bright despite the strong sense of unease she felt at the back of her tongue. It tasted metallic, like blood.

Alice blushed at the mention of her new boyfriend, grinning widely. "_Very _nice."

"How're you, Black?" Mary asked Sirius politely, as she sat down at the desk in front of him. She smiled prettily, something which would usually garner a wink.

He shrugged, saying nothing, then turned his head away to gaze out the window.

Imogen grimaced apologetically at Mary, who looked confused. She was about to ask Mary about her holidays, considering Sirius was in one of his stroppy moods, but Cumberstone was beginning the class – and all female attention was on him.

In fact, the majority of the class _was _female; only Sirius and a bored-looking boy who Imogen, oddly, didn't recognise made up the male population. Merlin, _he _was bloody beautiful as well; all dark-haired, flawless-skinned and _pretty. _His long lashes were coal-black against the sharp of his cheekbone, his mouth scathing but oh-so tempting.

Imogen shifted.

"Morning, everyone," the professor began, reaching up to run his fingers through his (gorgeous) hair, "you've all had a good holidays, I hope?"

A murmur of unenthusiastic affirmations greeted him, Imogen herself included. She ignored the eye-roll Sirius gave her.

"Well. That was… honest, I'll give you that." A few laughs. He looked pleased. "As Professor Dumbledore mentioned in his somewhat _disturbing_ speech last night," more laughing ensued as the class warmed to their new professor, "I'm planning on taking a new approach to teaching Muggle Studies. Instead of just learning about these wonderfully imaginative people, we'll be partaking in some of the activities that they do on a daily basis."

"Like what?" Imogen found herself asking, and Cumberstone beamed at her.

_Oh, Merlin, _she thought as her cheeks burned.

"Good question, Miss Waters." Gloria Sawyer, Ravenclaw sixth-year and Class A _bitch _sent Imogen a dark glare from across the room when Cumberstone smiled warmly at her. "I thought all of you could decide that for yourselves. Some inspiration, however, might be the upcoming Halloween ball. A few Muggle dances would be refreshing, don't you think?"

"Brilliant idea, sir," Mary said, "I can owl my mum – she knows a couple."

"Thank you, Miss…?"

"MacDonald." Mary practically sighed.

"Ah, thank you, Miss MacDonald."

"We have to learn _Muggle_ dancing?" Spat the moody-looking boy. "That's – that's just –"

"Just what, Mister Selwyn?" Cumberstone asked politely, and Imogen felt Sirius tense.

Selwyn was a Slytherin name. A _Pureblood _Slytherin name. This boy had to be Marcus Selwyn, the eldest of the brood and heir the vast fortune left to him by his parents. What in the name of Merlin's beard was he doing in _Muggle Studies?_

Marcus met the professor's gaze, contempt written all over his aristocratic features. He touched his tongue to his top lip, as if in thought. He dripped the same sort of confidence that Sirius did – the sort that came with _knowing _you were good looking – lounging in his chair with his arms folded over his chest, glossy dark hair combed back and eyebrows drawn in a permanent frown. "Disgusting." He said, after a moment's pause. "It's just… disgusting."

Sirius' fists clenched, and Imogen wished she could pat him on the shoulder to calm him down, but as soon as the words were out of Marcus' mouth her fingers had jumped to her wand and her temper was flaring. Hexes flew through her mind: Bat Bogey, Nostril Sticker, _petrificus totalus…_ She bit her tongue. A classroom wasn't the place to do this. Sirius seemed to be thinking along the same lines; his hand twitched towards the pocket of his robes, then back to the desk. She went to grab it, but some unspoken rule stopped her - there wasn't really _touching _between them. That wasn't their thing. So she resisted the urge, picking up her quill instead.

The rest of her peers looked shocked. Not so much by the Selwyn heir's discriminative attitude, that was no new thing, but by the fact he was sitting in their classroom. Most of them were only just noticing his presence, their brows knitting together and mouths down-turning in frowns. Had he been forced? Was it some kind of punishment? It _had _to be.

"Well," Cumberstone replied cheerily, "you'll just have to deal with that, won't you?"

Marcus' mouth tightened, but he wasn't stupid enough to cross any more lines.

"Alright! Let's get started, shall we?" Cumberstone clasped his hands together, and waved his wand. The movement caused a piece of blue chalk to zoom over from the cupboard at the back of the room and begin writing on the board at the front.

_POLITICS – NON-MAGIC_, it scrawled in an elegant script, and Imogen scrambled to unscrew her inkpot, eagerly scribbling down the title.

"Excited, are we?" Sirius drawled.

She ignored him.

"Can anyone tell me anything important that's going on in the Muggle world right now, politically?"

Nobody said anything. Imogen realised that she was probably the only student in the class with Muggle parentage. She thrust her hand into the air.

Cumberstone gave her a wry grin. Alice shot her an eyebrow wiggle over her shoulder. Sirius sighed, which she ignored. "Yes, Miss Waters?"

"Margaret Thatcher is Prime Minister, sir. And there's high inflation." She recalled, confidently.

"Excellent work, Miss Waters. Although high inflation _is _important, we should touch on the fact that Ms Thatcher is quite revolutionary. Can anyone tell me why?"

Again, nobody answered.

"_Excellent work, Miss Waters, O favourite student…_" Sirius mimicked in her ear.

Again, she ignored him.

Cumberstone frowned, tucking his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. A collective sigh could be heard from the majority of the class, save the two boys, in admiration. "Miss Waters?" he asked, sheepishly.

"First female Prime Minister." Marcus blurted, before Imogen could even open her mouth. He seemed as shocked as the rest of the class, clamping his lips shut, then opening them again, rather like a fish.

Cumberstone smiled widely at him. "Good job, Mister Selwyn. Your guardian taught you that, did she?"

The boy pursed his lips. "She was a suffragette." He muttered quickly, crossing his arms. "Fought for Muggle women's rights."

"That's quite admirable, no?"

"If they weren't bloody _Muggles._"

*.*

"That _bastard,_" Sirius raged, as they made their way to Transfiguration, "can you believe the little shit? The fucking _nerve._"

"Hey, you weren't exactly Mister Do-Gooder towards Cumberstone either." Imogen reminded him, struggling to match his long strides. Damned short legs.

He cast her a sidelong glance. "What?"

"You weren't all that _nice, _where you?" she asked, impatiently. To be honest, she was sick of Sirius' bad attitude, having had to struggle through an hour of it.

All he'd done throughout the _entire _class was make snide remarks, often aimed at her friendly manner towards Cumberstone, and try to look as bored and cynical as possible. There had been a fair few innuendos, too, which only served to incense her further. Imogen wasn't the most intelligent when it came to academics, nor was she the hardest worker of them all, but suggesting that she'd sleep with a teacher – even if it _was _as a joke – just wasn't funny.

When Imogen had suggested they do their homework together to make things simpler, he'd only rolled his eyes and said "_great_" as sarcastically as the laws of physics would allow - not that he knew much about those. For Merlin's sake, she'd only been suggesting a way to make the two foot of parchment they had to write on Muggle politics due on Wednesday _easier - _he didn't have to be such a raging dick about it.

"As opposed to you?" he asked, his tone scathing. "Merlin, Waters, you were about ready to get on your knees –"

"_Hey!_" she cried, sharply. "Don't you _bloody_ talk like that to me, _Black_, or I'll hex you into your own _arse_!"

He rounded on her, his face angry. "Oh?" He asked, invading her personal space until she'd backed herself into a wall. With nowhere left to go, her chest was pressed to his, and he loomed over her, his expression dark. He was close, closer than she was comfortable. Which wasn't to say she hadn't been _this close _to a boy before - no, Imogen Waters was well-acquainted with the many virtues of broom closets by this point - but not to Sirius. Most of the time, he maintained a friendly distance.

His eyes searched hers, their grey depths brimming with irritation that was barely in check. His thighs leaned against hers, and she spared a quick thought to all the people who were passing by, staring at them curiously.

"Yes, _oh! _What's gotten _into _you today? You're being an absolute _dick_, Sirius! Suggesting I'd sleep with a bloody teacher for marks!" she hissed, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

"Nothing's gotten _into _me, Waters," he shot back, his nose inches from hers, sneering, "it's that Selwyn bloke that's the problem. _He's _the one with something against Muggles!"

Imogen refused to let herself shrink back into the wall. Instead, she thrust out her chin and gave him _the look_, as high a voltage as she could muster, ignoring how his hands were planted either side of her head. "He's also a Pureblood Slytherin. I'd be surprised if he _wasn't _an arsehole! And that has _nothing _to do with you making those awful comments."

"Well –" he stopped, looked at her more closely. "_Into _my own arse?" He took one hand off the wall, reducing the tension between them by a mile.

She blew out a gusty sigh. "No. I don't know how to do that. Wish I did, though."

Sirius cracked a smile for the first time that morning, tugging at his already-loosened tie. "Yeah, I thought not."

She rolled her eyes and made to slip past him, but he caught her elbow and pulled her back. She looked up at him, leaning against the wall once more, as he fumbled for words. "Um," he said quietly, "sorry. That was… uncalled for."

She might have refused him, had she not been so loathe to keep grudges, and had he not turned his puppy-dog eyes onto her. He was terribly good at those. She gritted her teeth, but then he _tilted _his bloody _head _and peered at her with a wide, innocent gaze - and she couldn't keep it up.

"Doesn't matter." Imogen gave in, shaking her head. "Sorry for threatening to hex you into your own arse."

Sirius gave one of his signature bark-like laughs, letting go of her elbow. His fingers trailed down her forearm. "Doesn't matter." He threw her words back at her. His touch lingered at her wrist, and for a moment she thought he might take her hand, but he drew quickly away and flicked her nose instead.

Imogen punched his shoulder.

"What _is _up with you, anyway? And don't say _nothing,_ either," she said softly, as they made their way to their next classroom, "because I know that's utter crap."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just… Dumbledore's speech. Made me… frustrated."

Imogen gave a short laugh. "I know what you mean. I felt really bloody helpless."

"I – last summer…" he faltered, pressing his lips together. He hesitated mid-step, combing long fingers through his hair.

"Yeah?" she prompted.

"I saw – I saw Death Eaters attack a village. When I was out, on my own. I saw what they did and I didn't…" Sirius paused, tugging at his tie again as if it was strangling him, "I want to fight."

"Me too," Imogen said quietly.

He looked at her in surprise. "Why?" he asked, then looked furious with himself. "I mean - I know why. I'm not questioning your morals, or any - er."

She furrowed her brow at his fumbling. Sirius wasn't really the type to grasp for words, being known about the castle for his slick wit and slick nature; so it was odd, to say the least, seeing him like this. She waited.

Sirius sucked in a breath, pressed his lips together again. He spoke. "When did you decide?"

Oh. "Summer of fourth year. After - " she cut herself off with a choked sound, marvelling at the fact that - even though it had been two years - the mere mention of _fourth year _could make her throat clog up like that.

"After what?" he asked, sharply, noting her distress.

They stopped at their Transfiguration classroom.

"Nothing." Imogen said quickly, but before he could reply she went inside, apologising to McGonagall for being late.

She barely focused on the assigned task for that afternoon - switching a butterfly into a bee, then back again - thoughts of Sirius pressing her back into that wall causing all powers of concentration to momentarily flee from her head. She lingered on the image of his eyes, their silvery depths stormy and intense, the touch of his hand on her forearm. The sound of his voice, as he told her, hushedly, his urge to fight. She wondered if he, like her, had been suddenly struck with the overwhelming impulse; like an epiphany, perhaps - had he stood in the aftermath of that Death Eater attack on a Muggle town, feeling as if he was being called to arms?

She remembered waking in a tangle of sheets, throat raw from screaming, with the only warmth in sight the prospect of joining the cause. Of having _purpose. _Was that what Sirius felt, too?

With a jolt that made her knee jump and slam into her desk, she realised she'd found something of a comrade.

*.*

Imogen sat as close to the crackling fire as she could manage without burning herself, curling into the squashy armchair as she squinted at the Charms textbook she held open on her lap.

She sat with her legs over one of the armrests, her back braced against the other and her feet dangling mid-air. A blanket stolen from her bed in the dormitory upstairs was wrapped around her small shoulders; her feet encased in fluffy purple socks, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and her quill in the other, where she made idle notes in the margins of her book. It was only the first night back officially learning, after all; no need to be prompt in her studying habits.

In fact, she wouldn't be studying _at all _if it weren't for the sixth year paranoia that somehow managed to plague all her friends - except for the Marauders, of course, but Gus and Lily had gotten to her first, practically kidnapping her and forcing a textbook into her unwilling hands. Thus, here she sat, begrudgingly quite enjoying herself, doing a spot of Charm's. She stared at page sixty-two, re-reading paragraph eight for the third time.

_The Arcturius Charm, which allows its wielder to make any article of paper or document completely blank, and its counter-charm, was discovered by…_

"Diggory Arcturius," Imogen said aloud, summarising the sentence to be later made into notes.

Gus, who was curled up on the floor directly behind her, reached round and tickled her foot in a congratulatory manner. "Nice," he murmured, voice muffled as if he had a quill in his mouth.

"Cheers." She replied.

Imogen was by no means the most intelligent of students - that was why she was Gryffindor, and not Ravenclaw - and saying that she suffered from _lapses in concentration _would be no stretch of the imagination, but that didn't mean she never enjoyed a good charm. Or any nice bit of magic, actually. She _was _halfblood, and the wizarding world still held a sense of childish glee for her that had long since erased itself from her pureblood peers. That meant she got a bit over-excited when it came to spells she liked.

It was a useful charm, actually. _Make any article of paper or document completely blank… _it would be great for keeping particular documents safe… or for revealing others.

_Arcturi deper, Arcturi revelio._

She wrote it down several times on a scrap of parchment, then tucked it into her robes.

It had become something of a habit, over the past few years, taking down spells she thought useful. She wanted to prepare for the dark times that were coming. The man who called himself Lord Voldemort and his followers was on the rise, and it wasn't as if he would wait until his opponents were out of school. She needed to be ready. She needed to protect her family and the hundreds of innocent people that would suffer –

Imogen turned the page, pushing the thought from her mind.

Lily was perched in the chair next to her, practising turning a porcupine into a pocket watch, but to no avail. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make the terrified animal do anything more than emit a faint _ticking _noise. She took turns in between scrutinizing her own textbook, thick red hair hanging over one shoulder, and screeching in frustration.

It was eight o'clock, so her crazed shrieks were not received well by those who weren't still at tea.

She consulted the textbook. "_Porcupis lemange!_" she ordered, flicking her wand.

The porcupine quivered, but it was in fear rather than magic.

"_Ugh_!" She growled, and prodded it.

"Bloody hell, Evans!" Gus finally cracked, after one too many eardrums were burst, "Just ask someone for help!"

Lily whipped round to face him, peering obscenely over the back of her chair. Her eyes were wild, her mane of hair even more so. "Ask?" she demanded. "_Ask?_"

"Yep." Gus replied, popping the 'p'. He was probably the only person in the entire school, professors included, who wasn't the least bit intimidated by Lily Evans.

"Who on _earth _could I ask for help?"

With anyone else, this would have been a bit conceited. But that was Lily; she believed she was the best at most things (academically, anyway), and it was mostly true. So, really, she had every reason to believe there was nobody who could help her.

But, anyway, Transfiguration seemed to escape Lily. Completely. At least, sixth-year Transfiguration did.

"I hear Potter's pretty good at it." Gus declared innocently.

"_Potter?_" she spat, perhaps a tad too loudly.

Then, realising her mistake, she tried to make herself as invisible as possible- but it was too late.

"YES EVANS?" James thundered, leaping from his chair across the Common Room into a standing position.

"Oh, Merlin," Lily groaned and covered her eyes with her hands.

Imogen fought the urge to laugh as he sauntered towards them, running his hands through his hair. He had shucked his robes hours previously, favouring the more casual attire of regular school uniform, his tie loose around his neck and shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He shot a nearby group of second-years a lazy grin, and they tittered. The same could not be said of Lily, who merely made a somewhat feral noise in the back of her throat.

"I do believe," he practically sang, prancing over to kneel before his 'lady love', "that you need my assistance with something?"

"_No, _Potter," Lily retorted, although somewhat muffled through her fingers, "I don't."

"Oh, but I think you _do, _Evans!" James trilled, reaching out to attempt to pry Lily's hands from her face.

"No."

He was losing the fight. Lily's fingers were firmly attached to her head.

"Yes!" He gritted out, tense with the strain.

"NO."

"Yeeeeeeeeeees!" James cajoled, as if lengthening the syllable would convince her any further, if she was convinced at all.

"_NOOOOO._" She shot back, her voice mangled and almost hysterical with rage. Lily's face – or what Imogen could see of it – was now almost as red as her hair.

"But, Evans-"

"BUT NOTHING POTTER YOU ABSOLUTE _DOLT –_"

"Stop manhandling the poor girl, James!" Imogen chastised, assisting Lily by charming a pillow to beat her attacker over the head.

"Oi – stop it – _Gen!_" James cried, releasing her and falling backwards, where the pillow renewed its attack by targeting his chest and abdomen.

Lily immediately took her hands from her face and gathered her things, sprinting upstairs before James could protest.

Imogen – who was having _far _too much fun at this stage – had long since set down her tea and forgotten her homework, choosing instead to stand on her chair and charm various objects around the room to gently bump into her friend's body.

It wasn't enough to harm, obviously, but it was brilliant for distracting someone greatly.

"THE LADY SAID NO, POTTER." She bellowed, the rising amusement of the Gryffindor Common Room.

Gus was lying on his back, snorting with laughter, while Sirius, Peter and Remus had crowded round James and were trying to subdue the objects. Marlene McKinnon was giving her the thumbs up from her corner shared with Mary MacDonald, who was watching worriedly.

"MERLIN IMOGEN STOP!" James cried, as his glasses were nudged off his nose by three quills, his eyes wide and limbs flailing. They dangled from the end of his lip comically, before falling into his lap. He tumbled backwards, as if this was the last straw, moaning.

After a few seconds more, and with a flick of her wand, Imogen sent the charmed objects back to their original places, where they settled with a faint rattle. One by one, the students turned back to what they had been doing before. Large displays of magic and ruckus was hardly rare, not with the sixth-years. They were a rowdy lot, to be honest.

The Marauders, plus Gus, regarded her with a faint sense of horror, now that the hysteria had died down. And, once they realised that the entire thing had been done non-verbally.

"Well," Sirius said, "you weren't kidding about that wand-work, were you?"

"I've been practising." Imogen replied loftily. "All last year."

"_What for?_" James asked, inspecting himself for what she presumed would be bruises. Which was ridiculous – the only harsh element of her spell had been the pillow, and that was an oxymoron in itself.

"Nothing, really. Just practising."

"Well – well _practise _on someone else, you mad bird!" James shrieked, flapping his hands. "That was _mortifying!_"

"What d'you mean?" she demanded, glaring at him. "Is it because I'm a _woman_?"

"Huh?" he asked, frowning.

"I _said, _is it because of my vagina? Hm?"

"Wha –"

"BECAUSE IF IT IS –"

"No! Merlin, no!" James reassured her.

She took a breath. "Sorry. Just a bit sensitive about that."

"Understandable." Peter said. "It's a wizard's world."

The others looked at him, brows creased.

"What?" he demanded. "It is!"

James shook his head. "It's not because of your… lady bits. It's because you're about three feet tall."

"Oi!" she said, as the other four cracked up. "I am not!"

"You are a bit." Remus said fondly, reaching over and ruffling her hair.

She moodily patted down her curls, lest they spring up with a vengeance. "Shut up."

"You are actually _dead_ little," Gus cooed. "Look at you, you're standing on a chair and I'm still about a foot taller."

"That's because _you're _freakishly tall. And size does not in any way infer power!"

"No," Sirius agreed, "but it does help."

"Argh!" Imogen threw up her hands and collapsed back into her seat, sulking vigorously.

She crossed her arms and stared at the fire, pouting. The flames crackled merrily in a highly mocking manner. "Bloody fire." She muttered. "Bloody _boys._"

Silence.

Imogen nodded to herself. They would apologise later, and then _she _would apologise for setting the pillow on James. But _they_ would apologise first. Yes. Good. Her logic was infallible. She resisted the urge to cackle. That would not be becoming.

More silence. She picked up her tea, and upon realising it had gone cold, charmed it hot again, then wriggled back into her blanket.

She harrumphed, finding satisfaction in the knowledge that she, technically, was in the right.

"Waters." Sirius was standing next to her chair, looking down at her with an amused expression. "Waters."

She burrowed further back into the chair. She heard him sigh, shift from side to side.

"Are you _sulking_?" Gus asked.

"She is." Remus affirmed, peering at her from around the chair.

"Look at her, she's pouting. Her titchy lip is wobbling."

"Yeah, she looks like Prongs after Evans calls him a toerag." Sirius snorted.

"Oi!"

"Huh, so she does."

"That cup of tea's bigger than she is." Peter noted, rather unhelpfully.

_Calm, _Imogen thought. _Calm._

"C'mon, Waters, we're sorry."

"Yeah, we're very sorry that you're chucking a wobbler."

_Calm. Not a bloody wobbler. Calm._

"Shut up, King –"

"_You _shut up, Lupin –"

Sirius shushed them both, then knelt down in front of her. "Waters," he coaxed, giving a charismatic smile, one he knew perfectly well had managed to charm the tartan knickers off of McGonagall. Underhanded tactic. "Please, forgive us?"

_Ca – oh, fuck it._

She broke. "I bloody have to, don't I?" she snapped ignoring James and Gus' loud _waheeeeys_.

Sirius huffed out a small laugh, flashing straight white teeth. She noted that a five o'clock shadow was breaking out across his jawline – and a very strong jawline it was, too. Too bloody handsome, that boy. "Yep."

"You wouldn't know what to do without me."

"Of _course _not, Waters."

"I thought so."

Remus, James, Peter and Gus were still whooping enthusiastically and leaping round the room, much to the disdain of various seventh-years who were trying to study, when Sirius leaned forward even closer.

"It wasn't just practise, was it?" he asked, his tone grim.

Imogen thought back to the summer of fourth year, and the moment that she'd sworn to do all she could to protect her family. She thought back to the countless night spent scribbling down spells she saw as useful – defence spells, curses and hexes that could maim and hurt and _kill – _she thought back to the nights spent in her dormitory with Marlene, practising and practising until she could perform them in her sleep.

She bit her lip. "No," she whispered.


	3. Familia In Aeternum, Quod Pueri

Lily was sitting upright in bed, brushing out her luxuriant red locks when Imogen finally clambered up to their dormitory at about eleven o'clock.

"You were out late," she commented.

Imogen shrugged. "Everyone stays up on the first night. By all accounts, dearest, I'm early." She gestured around the empty beds for emphasis. The only other inhabitant, besides Lily, was Gengy. The kitten was snoozing contentedly on Imogen's pillow, probably tired from a long day of being adorable.

Alice was out, presumably, with Frank, Marlene was off snogging a fifth-year Ravenclaw she'd had her eye on at lunch, and Mary was still downstairs, reading.

"Don't lie to me," Lily accused, "I know who you've been with!"

She grinned. "It's not what it looks like, baby."

"You were with _another friend, _weren't you?"

Imogen had actually been reading another trashy romance novel _(Winsome Werewolves, _this time)_,_ but she played along. "I swear, I was thinking about you the whole time!"

Lily gasped in mock horror, clasping a small hand to her chest. "I can't even look at you."

Imogen snorted and sat on the edge of her friend's bed. "Move over, bumhole."

"Rightio, you lazy cow." Lily curled her feet underneath her and patted the space by her pillow.

"Missed you." Imogen sighed, snuggling under the duvet. She smiled fondly; this reminded her of first year, when they'd both been so little that they could fit easily in one bed, and they used to have weekend-long sleepovers, whispering until they could barely keep their eyes open.

The two had been friends, as she and Gus had, since the train journey. Both being of muggle descent, even if Imogen had a witch mother, their parents had gravitated towards each other at the station. They'd been introduced, Lily accepting her outstretched hand shyly, returning her grin with only a little hesitation, and been friends ever since.

"Missed you too, darling Immy. How are you, by the way?" She asked, giving Imogen a concerned look. "I mean, after –"

"I'm fine." Imogen interrupted. "Really, Lils. I don't want to talk about… that."

Lily didn't look convinced, but she smiled kindly, patting her hand and returning to her hair. "Cheers for saving me, by the way."

"No problem. Just one question, though," Imogen said innocently, "because I found it very odd that you needed my assistance in the first place."

Lily's hand froze, mid-brush. "Oh?" she asked, tremulously.

"I mean, _usually_, you'd just hex him." Imogen mused. "But not today."

Lily cleared her throat. "I would've," she assured, "but, I'm. Well. I'm a Prefect, aren't I?"

"You were a Prefect last year, too, Lils."

"And my rebellious days are over. I'm retired."

Imogen snorted amusedly, closing her eyes. "You? Rebellious? _Please._"

"Excuse me! I'll have you know I am _very _rebellious."

"Example."

"Well – well. I, ah, well."

"Well."

"Shut up! I'm thinking."

"Don't strain yourself."

"You're an absolute _bint, _you – oh! _Ha!_"

Imogen cracked open one eye. "Wracked your poor brains enough?"

"Oi."

"Sorry. Do continue, dearest."

Lily cleared her throat importantly. "Remember, last year, when I got us all that firewhiskey and chocolate from the kitchens? When Marlene got dumped by that Davies bloke?"

"Ooh, he was fit, wasn't he?"

"She was in a right state."

"Mm."

"But _see? _That's rebellious."

"Alright," Imogen rolled onto her back and held up a finger, "_one, _it was butterbeer, not firewhiskey. Still got wankered, you lightweight –"

" – it was my first time drinking –"

"And _two_," she continued pointedly, holding up another finger, "I went along, and you barely managed to stop shaking enough to carry the chocolate!"

"The important thing to remember, Immy, is that I tried. And therefore, you should not criticise me."

"What are you two oddballs on about?" Marlene grumbled, practically tumbling into the dormitory. Her hair was mussed, blonde clumps sticking up all over the place, her lips swollen and clothes rumpled. She seemed somewhat dazed.

"Wooooo," Imogen said, impressed. "_Someone's _been having an awful lot of fun."

Marlene rolled her eyes, recovering enough to manage a slight sashay before collapsing onto her bed. "That boy's energetic, I'll give you that."

"Looks it." Lily noted drily, setting her hairbrush down. "Sooo. Is he any good?"

The blonde wriggled out of her skirt and tugged off her tights before answering. "_Very._" She purred, in her husky voice.

Imogen hooted. "You lucky cow! Look at you, it's only the first day and you've _already _managed to pull a bloke."

"I certainly have." Marlene magicked away her makeup, and began to pull on her pyjamas. "Impressive show in the Common Room, by the way. Simply marvellous." She grinned wickedly.

"All that practising we did was worth it, eh?" Imogen winked.

Lily groaned. "Oh God, I'd forgotten about that. Not this year, _please, _I've only just gotten used to sleeping without spells flying about the room!"

Marlene waved a well-manicured hand. "Darling, stop. We'll practise during our free lessons, won't we, Immy? We chucked Divination and I had it the same time as you."

"Yeah, after lunch tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Ooh," Marlene sighed, taking off her jumper, "two hours of cursing things. Without any sarcasm whatsoever, it sounds absolutely _riveting._"

"Wa_hey_," Imogen exclaimed at the sight of Marlene's red-lace bra. "Are your tits bigger?"

The other girl shook her head cheerfully. "Not at all! It's a push up."

"Push ups don't do _that._" Lily said in awe, tilting her head to get a better look.

"Well. A push up _and _a tricky little spell my aunt taught me."

"THERE'S A SPELL TO MAKE YOUR TITS BIGGER?"

"Merlin, _no! _There's a spell to push them _up,_ you daft dingbat."

"Oh."

"Teach us!" Imogen shrieked, clasping her own disappointingly small breasts.

"There has to be something to push _up, _Immy."

"Oi."

"Not sorry."

Imogen flicked Lily's button nose, producing an irritated wail of pain from the red-head. Lily returned the flick by pinching her thigh. Hard.

"Ow!"

"Serves you right, titface."

"ANYWAY." Marlene interrupted their squabbling, and they fell silent. "There was something I wanted to ask _this _one." She pointed at Imogen.

"Me? What have I done?" she inquired.

"Gloria Sawyer was saying that you were flirting with Cumberstone." Marlene reported, the finger unwavering.

"I was _not _flirting, I answered a question!" Imogen countered hotly.

"Stupid cow." Lily muttered, savagely. "What's her problem?"

Marlene shrugged. "That's enough to be flirting, in her most bitchy opinion. And that's not what's important."

"What is it, then?"

"Well, we were all downstairs about an hour ago, up at the Astronomy Tower."

"Marlene, that's not _allowed –_"

"Ssh, Lils!"

"_Thank _you, darling." Marlene rolled her eyes. "As I said, we- meaning me, my dear boy-toy, the Marauders, Gloria and a few of her bats- were in the Astronomy Tower, when Sawyer started harping on about you being _such a slaggy little cow –_"

"Merlin, I've never even _spoken _to her!"

" – and I stopped her and said, _define slaggy, _so she got all confused and actually tried to define slaggy –"

"Which you _can't_," Imogen ranted, "because it's a social construct developed by slave drivers who wanted to make sure the fourteen-year-old girls they raped weren't off with any other men."

"Exactly!" Marlene said, and they air-high-fived.

"Well? What happened next?" Lily urged.

"Oh, right. Anyway, I told her to shut her mouth, because that's one of my best mates she was going on about – but she went on anyway, saying that you were about one step away from bending over for Cumberstone –"

"Oh, that's _classy._"

" – but here's the real kicker: before I could shove her off the tower, _Black _came to your rescue."

Imogen paused for a moment in her fury. "So?" she asked. "He's my friend."

"Oh no," Marlene said dramatically, "this wasn't normal Marauder-style defence, with the lazy sort of _oi piss off, she's my mate_!"

"What d'you mean?" she frowned, running her fingers through her untidy mane.

"He went a bit mad, actually. Threatened to hex, and I quote," Marlene recalled, holding two fingers of each had up to display air-quotes, "_her fake tits off_, unquote, if he ever heard her spreading rumours about you ever again. No _my mates_, mind, _you_. Specifically. Got his wand out and everything."

"Huh." Lily pondered, her brow creased in a pensive frown. "That's a bit odd. Black doesn't really get bothered by much, does he?"

That was true. Sirius Black was notoriously unbothered by many things, although earlier during the day had not been testament to that.

"Yeah, even James looked surprised. Well, after he told Gloria to sod off and stop banging on about his mates, that is."

"Actually," Imogen corrected, "this morning Black was in a right strop."

"He had Muggle Studies with you, didn't he?" Marlene asked, slyly.

"Yeah, and?"

"Maybe he was a bit jealous, too?"

"What? No!" Imogen laughed. "No, he was just pissed at Marcus Selwyn. He said some stupid stuff about Muggles in class." She said, ignoring the reminder in the back of her head that told her Sirius had made a crack about her supposed 'flirting' with Cumberstone, too.

She'd deal with that, later.

The words had an immediate effect on her two dorm mates: shock. They stared at her with their mouths open, eyes wide.

"Marcus Selwyn?" Lily asked incredulously. "_Marcus Selwyn _was in Muggle Studies?"

"But he's –" Marlene began, and Imogen cut her off.

"Pureblood, I know. Doesn't make sense to me, either."

"'S not like he's doing it now that his parents can't stop him, either," Lily surmised, "you should've heard the supremacy crap he was spouting last year."

"What d'you mean, parents can't stop him?" Imogen queried.

"They died, over the summer. Dunno how. Left him a simply _gigantic _fortune for when he turns eighteen… I wouldn't mind edging my way in, if he wasn't such a prat. Wonderfully good looking, though." Marlene sighed, rolling onto her back. "Pity all the cute ones are elitist, inbred arseholes, isn't it?"

Imogen snorted and considered what she had just said. Selwyn _was _good-looking, as she'd noticed earlier; very regal, very _strong._ Yet, he always seemed to look as if he was attending someone's funeral – perhaps it was tactless, to say that now – since all he ever seemed to wear was dark suits, with his hair always scraped back, expression severe. Regardless of school uniform, too – she wondered how he got away with that.

She hadn't recognised him at first, but after his name had been spoken she'd spent the entire day recollecting various other times she'd seen him. It was just odd to see him in such a place as a Muggle Studies lesson, not surrounded by his Slytherin groupies.

The dark smudges under his eyes and the pallor of his skin hadn't helped, either.

"He's an orphan?" she asked, thinking back to his unexpected knowledge about Margaret Thatcher.

"Yeah."

"He said his guardian was a suffragette, you know." Imogen said, mentally smacking herself for not realising that _of course, _he was an orphan – you didn't just have guardians for the sake of it.

"They fought for women's rights?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe they're making him take it."

"I suppose. I'm going to bed." Imogen slid off Lily's bed and traipsed back to her own bunk, charming her teeth clean and face devoid of makeup as she went, being far too knackered to do anything else. She'd been pyjama-clad before she'd gone downstairs to do homework, finding that being comfortable was paramount, and basically collapsed face-down on her bed. Gengy yowled in protest, before forgiving her about two seconds afterwards and making a nest in Imogen's curls.

"Night, all." Lily called, switching off her bedside light.

"Goodnight, darlings." Marlene replied.

"Nuuurght." Imogen groaned.

And thus marked the end of their first day back at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As the dormitory was plunged into darkness, and the breathing of her fellow sixth-year Gryffindor girls evened out into sleep, Imogen frowned and thought about Sirius.

He'd been acting odd. Very odd. Odder than usual, considering he was a Marauder, and all because of that speech? That didn't explain his defensiveness of her, though. Maybe he realised how much of a line he'd crossed and was determined to make up for it? Yet, she'd _said _it was fine, and he knew that she wasn't one to keep grudges. Or maybe, she thought, maybe he saw how upset she'd been. Maybe he wanted to help her.

Maybe he was just moody.

It couldn't be his family, could it? Sirius had left them over the summer. He lived with the Potters, now.

Why was she so bothered, anyway? It was Sirius, they weren't even that close.

_Stop being daft, _she told herself resolutely, and forced any thought of Sirius Black and his weird behaviour from her mind.

*.*

"You look awful." Sammy commented, as Imogen plopped down into her seat.

She didn't take offense. The Ravenclaw Prefect could be painfully blunt, but her sunny disposition and readiness with a friendly smile made it hard to be mad at her for any length of time.

"Didn't get much sleep." She replied, hoarsely. She'd caught a brief, terrifying glance of her reflection on the way to class - ashen skin, bags so big they were practically _suitcases _under each of her eyes, three new spots on her cheek. No wonder Sammy looked worried.

Truth be told, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about Sirius the previous night; she'd woken up after about half an hour of rest, and, immediately, begun thinking of him. And, of course, that had led to thinking about the impending war that loomed over their heads like thunderclouds.

Imogen had spent the rest of the night, and much of the morning until four o'clock, staring at the top of her four-poster bed, stroking Gengy's fur absently, and pondering what was to come. Would they break out into full-on war, or would the ministry be able to stop it? Would _Dumbledore _be able to stop it?

The ministry was absolutely rubbish, everyone knew that. They hadn't even been able to stop the attacks on Muggles, and that was only the beginning. Death Eaters were being recruited left and right; even those who didn't give two shits about Blood Purity were being terrorised and threatened until they joined. It seemed as if every new day brought new names to be added to the lists of the dead.

Only that morning, over breakfast, Remus had pointed out an article in the Daily Prophet which reported the death of the Montgomerys – a wealthy and influential family that had made it known they would not support Voldemort in his quest for the 'Pure Race'.

All of them had been found, dead, in their house: Mr and Mrs Montgomery, their three daughters, and their infant son. All murdered by Death Eaters.

Imogen had felt sick to her stomach. She felt helpless, as if nothing she could do could make _anything _better- if the Montgomerys were dead, if those who stood up to Voldemort and fought against him were dead, what was the point?

It was infuriating.

"Maybe you should ask Madame Pomfrey for some Pepper-Up Potion?"

"Nah. She'll just think I've got a hangover." she managed a wan smile with her feeble joke, closing her sore eyes briefly.

Sammy chuckled, pressing her fingertips to her mouth.

Imogen watched tiredly as her friend began to gather her sleek, dark hair into a ponytail, dimly registering a faint strum of jealousy at the back of her head at the brunette's ease. Usually, it took about three spells and forty-five minutes for her own unruly curls to settle down enough to be scraped back into a bun.

Today, it was left wild and free – an erratic mane springing from her scalp. She'd been woken, late, by Lily screeching at her to get ready, and had only had time to take a quick shower. Her hair, sadly, had been left to dry on its own.

At least it was clean.

"Nice bird's nest, Waters." A snotty voice, full of smug amusement, trilled from behind them.

Imogen turned round to see Gloria Sawyer and her cronies lounging at the desks three rows back.

Of course. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had Charms together, didn't they. Fan-bloody-tastic. Although it was a wonder at how Sawyer managed to be Sorted into the house valued for their wisdom_._

"I'd say you were being sarcastic if you had the brain capacity, but obviously not. So, cheers." She shot back, unabashedly catty, raising her eyebrow. Those surrounding who had heard her harsh response turned to watch, their interest piqued.

It would never be said that Imogen Waters was afraid to get bitchy on occasion.

Actually, it would never be said that Imogen Waters was afraid to do much, really, whether it be out of actual Gryffindor bravery or simple foolishness. Probably the latter.

There was no denying Imogen could fly into a rage of Lily Evans-like proportions, nor was there any doubt that she was as quick with her words as she was with a wand. Her habit of letting loose insults and curses at equal frequency was almost as infamous as James Potter's hair, as were the rumours of her detention record. Legend – or, more likely, Augustus King –told that it rivalled that of the Marauders.

Gloria didn't seem to register the insult, simply pursing her blood-red lips and tossing her perfectly coiffed brunette hair. "Sucked anyone else off, slag?" She asked, innocently.

Imogen narrowed her eyes to slits as Sammy's mouth dropped open. "No." she said, sharply. "I haven't."

"Well you had to do _something_ to make Black so defensive, right?" Gloria simpered, and her plastic replicas giggled with her in sugary tones. "Give a boy a blowjob and he'll do _anything_."

Murmurs erupted from those who watched, the gossip wheels already turning in their heads. Imogen groaned inwardly, knowing that the false rumours of her giving Sirius cunnilingus would spread quicker around the school than a bad case of Dragon Pox. Or an STI, in this case.

"Alright you _heinous bitch_," she countered vehemently, ignoring the collective gasp from the surrounding students, "Sirius happens to be a _friend. _I'd defend him, too, if you were going about calling him a whore."

Gloria practically snarled in outrage, opening her ruby-slicked lips to bite out a sharp, albeit rather dim-witted retort, but she was interrupted by Professor Flitwick.

"Wands at the ready, please!" He chirped, oblivious to the tense atmosphere in his classroom.

"Are you alright?" Sammy asked, her rosebud lips tugged downwards in a concerned frown.

"I'm fine," Imogen replied, "she's just irritated that she's got no chance with Sirius, that's all."

Sammy smiled at her. "She is a bi – a horrid girl, isn't she?"

Imogen laughed. "You can say bitch, Sammy. It's alright."

She shrugged. "I don't like to. But she is a bloody mean one."

Imogen smothered her laugh with her hands, apologising profusely when Flitwick cleared his throat at them.

*.*

"Alright," Marlene instructed, holding a battered book in one hand and brandishing her wand with the other, "like we practised, mm?" With her hair tied back from her face, expression fierce and focused, she looked as if she'd been in the field for years, rather than simply practising in her dormitory at night.

"Yeah." Imogen agreed, tightening her grip on her own wand.

"_Reducto!_" they cried in seamless synchronisation, red jets of light erupting from their wands and smacking into the dummy Professor McGonagall had set up for them.

The force of the two spells sent it flying back into the wall, where it landed with a resounding crack, and then fell to the floor.

"Nice," Imogen noted, as she watched the dummy begin to smoke.

"I _like _this book!" Marlene squealed, snapping it shut. "The arm movement suggestions are brilliant."

The book was another gift from their Transfiguration Professor and Head of House, who'd taken an interest in their training and had since become a sort of generous benefactor to their cause, calling them into her office to speak with them at lunch.

"I hear you two have been practising your wand work in your spare time." She'd commented, offering them both a biscuit. McGonagall was prim and severe as always, hair scraped back in a grey-streaked bun, lips thin, even as she was holding sweets.

Imogen, who was fairly sure that those were the same ones she'd been presented with after her very first detention, had declined, instead choosing to say, "Yes, Professor. We have."

"All last year!" Marlene had added, through a mouthful of biscuit.

"Good." McGonagall had said pithily. "It shows in your school work."

"Thank you, Professor."

McGonagall waved a hand at the formality. "Miss McKinnon, Miss Waters, I'm sure you're very curious as to _why _I asked you here."

"Yes," Imogen shared a nervous glance with Marlene, wondering if they had done something wrong, "I – _we – _are."

"As I'm sure you're aware," the Transfiguration Professor began, and screwed the lid back on the jar of biscuits, "dark times are coming."

Imogen tensed. Marlene swallowed her biscuit.

"It is not hard to see that all this," McGonagall mumbled, gesturing, until she found the right word, "_practising_, is not for simple academic purposes. Yes?"

"Yes." Marlene confirmed, after a lengthy pause. She fidgeted, pulling her skirt further down her thighs - not that it did much to cover her legs in the first place.

"The tragedies you both have suffered… the deaths you have both seen… I can imagine you would want to be adequately prepared."

The girls both flinched. Marlene's family had been killed way back in second year, and she'd been living with her aunt ever since. Her reasons for fighting were obvious. As for Imogen, only a few people - the girl sitting beside her, Lily, the professors - knew the motive behind her thirst for heroics. Not even the Marauders were aware of what happened in fourth year, with only James having a faint inkling that something had gone awfully wrong during that summer.

"The Ministry said - after, I mean - that they were... were doing their best, so that nothing like _that _could happen again," she said quietly, twisting her fingers in the hem of her skirt, "but their best just. Um."

"Isn't good enough." Marlene finished, with a low sort of anger.

Their professor sniffed. "The establishment rarely intervenes where it is needed the most," she said sagely.

After that, McGonagall had requested they be open to instructing others in self-defence spells, although she'd also requested they call it _revision. _Then, she'd given Imogen the dummy and Marlene the book on various curses and jinxes. It was old, the purple binding crumbling and the gold lettering- that spelled out _Starlington's Spells for the Darker Times_ – peeling off.

Its pages were yellowing, the ink faded so much that Imogen had to squint to make out a few spells – but _damn, _was it brilliant.

Its index alone was enough to make her screech with excitement; it gave details of curses she'd never even heard of, jinxes that made speech scrambled, hexes that caused someone to go temporarily blind – all non-lethal, all relatively harmless, except for a section in the back labelled _Curses for Dire Circumstances_.

They were spells for someone who was opposed to seriously maiming others, someone who was fighting against dark magic. An Auror, perhaps.

It also dictated new ways of casting classic spells, such as _reducto _or _expelliarmus, _instructing its readers on the best wand motion and posture, scrutinising each detail down to the preferred _pronunciation_.

The book, albeit having to be handled carefully, was casually thrown about by Marlene.

"Oi!" Imogen warned her, after she thumped it down – rather unceremoniously – on a nearby desk. "That's a bloody goldmine, McKinnon – watch yourself!"

Marlene just rolled her eyes. "Loosen up, darling. You're too… stressy."

"That's not a word."

"Does it matter?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Uptight, then." Marlene amended, and Imogen rolled her eyes.

She was about to bite back when a tall, handsome boy in an impeccable suit and dark, heavy robes walked into their little classroom. His expression was one of intense distaste as he closed the door firmly behind him. There were dark circles under his eyes, hinting at sleepless nights, and something quite hollow in the way he walked.

Imogen kept a tight grip on her wand.

Marcus Selwyn surveyed them both, his icy blue eyes sweeping from girl to girl, taking in their defensive postures and confused expressions with his upper lip curled – not quite a sneer, but close to it.

"Imogen Waters, am I correct?" he asked, stiffly. That was a good way to describe him; _stiff, _holding himself as if he had a broomstick shoved rather far up his arse.

She nodded.

"Slughorn sent me here." he intoned, shutting the door behind him. His eyes darted around the room; while his voice and expression said he was bored, the way his gaze snapped to every move she made said otherwise.

"Why?"

"He heard you're starting a defence club, of sorts. I'm to join."

He was prompt, she'd give him that.

Marlene was the first to speak after that. "Why do you need defence?" she asked, sharply. "I thought you had plenty of willing human shields – sorry, _friends_ – to help you."

Her scathing tone was enough to make Selwyn flinch. "I don't have friends, I – I'm not –"

"Oh no, of course not. I'd forgotten. Friends are beneath you, aren't they?"

"No." he shook his head. "I mean that I don't have friends any_more._"

Imogen frowned. "Why's that?" Personally, she would have assumed there would be plenty of those who would flock to the newly-orphaned boy, in hopes that he would be thankful enough for their 'friendship' to give them some of his enormous fortune.

"I'm not seventeen yet. I won't be until late December, next year, actually. So my little brother and I, we went to live with our guardians."

"Yeah, you mentioned that." Imogen interrupted snappishly. "Doesn't explain the friends thing, though."

"If you'd let me finish, I will." He retorted.

She pressed her lips together, rolled her eyes, then nodded. "Fine. Go on."

He scowled. "Our guardians are… supportive. Of Muggles." Sighing, he passed a hand through his scrupulously tidy hair. "Living with Blood Traitors is rather detrimental to one's popularity in Slytherin, at the moment, as you two probably know."

"So," Marlene began, tapping her wand against her thigh, "all your batshit former-comrades aren't all that fond of you now, are they?"

"No."

"Must be awful to be hated for something you can't help," Imogen commented dryly, pointedly, and Marlene snorted.

Marcus scowled.

"And you need our assistance."

"I – yes." He admitted, begrudgingly.

To say Marcus Selwyn was incredibly uncomfortable would be an understatement.

Imogen crossed her arms. "They're threatening you?"

Selwyn pressed his lips together, clenching his fists, and nodded.

"Who?"

"You _know _who." He replied viciously, and Marlene scoffed.

"Voldemort's threatening you?" she teased. "Sorry, dear, but I simply don't think you're important enough."

He cast her a contemptuous glance, full of fury, and spat "Malfoy. The Blacks. Among others."

"My," Marlene breathed in mock admiration, "aren't _you _popular?"

"He's not doing it for himself, Marlene." Imogen deliberated, tilting her head to one side and considering the boy before her. "He's too proud for that. He'd rather be hexed to bits than ask two, ah, _filthy Blood Traitors_ for help."

"His brother?"

"I'm guessing so."

"It doesn't _matter!_" Selwyn exploded wrathfully, _suddenly, _his handsome features twisted in anger. "I just need your _help! _Just – just _stop _with this," he waved his hand as he searched for the word, a complete opposite to his normal calm, collected self, "this humiliation, will you? Isn't it enough that I'm being subjected to the torture of living with two Muggle-loving scum who think that they can fill our heads with their _bullshit_ –"

"Shut up." Imogen ordered furiously, raising her wand.

He jutted out his chin in defiance at the order. "Don't tell me to _shut up, _you filthy mud –"

"_Petrificus Totalus!_" Imogen barked, having had enough of Selwyn's disrespect.

The spell hit him square in the chest. He toppled to the floor, his head cracking against the stone. His arms were sandwiched to his sides, his thighs and calves stuck together - immobile. His eyes were furious. Blazing, actually. She was surprised there weren't little flames spewing from them, to be honest.

"Bugger." She swore, pressing a hand over her eyes. "I didn't think that through."

"He was about to call you a mudblood," Marlene said dryly, bending over Selwyn to take his wand, "I think you're slightly in the right. For precautionary measures," she held up the wand when Imogen gave her a questioning look through her fingers, and tucked it into her pocket.

"I'm going to be in so much trouble." She sighed regretfully. "James is going to _laugh at me - _detention, for a petrificus totalus? This is humiliating."

"Psh," Marlene waved a hand, "I think not. He wouldn't rat, would he? A Slytherin would be far too ashamed to even mention a Blood Traitor like you having beaten him. _Wouldn't they_?" she directed the last part at Selwyn, whose eyes narrowed dangerously.

Imogen fidgeted nervously, tucking her wand away. She began to pace. "I think we should help him."

"Possibly. His reflexes aren't very sharp, and he's stupid enough to call _you_ a mudblood. I don't know if you've noticed, but you've garnered a bit of a reputation, darling."

"People keep saying that." Imogen mumbled, agitatedly.

"Well, you have." Marlene continued casually, as if there wasn't a vengeful Slytherin lying on the floor, probably concocting their deaths in his head. "A surprising amount of people are a little bit terrified of you. Amos Diggory nearly wets himself every time you're mentioned. Not even _I _instil that fear in his weak little heart."

"Amos Diggory tried to pull me into a broom closet with him," Imogen snapped, "it's not my fault I cursed him within an inch of his life. I thought he was going to assault me!"

"He's a little prick anyway. Maybe you should make it a yearly thing."

"Can we please focus?" Imogen asked, gesturing towards Selwyn.

"Oh, right. Sorry, darling."

"Right. So we help him."

"Should be fun." Marlene commented sarcastically.

"We teach him how to defend himself, but we _cannot mention it to anyone._" Imogen commanded.

"Of course not. The Gryffindors would be outraged and the Slytherins would be murderous."

"Marlene," Imogen asked, "has anyone told you that you're very quick on the uptake?"

"On numerous occasions."

"I thought so."

They smiled at each other. Selwyn, having just regained the ability to move his vocal cords, made a whining groan-screech of frustration.

"Oh, shit," Imogen said, realising her spell was wearing off, "sorry."

She cast the counter-curse and watched him, warily, as he got to his feet and dusted off his suit.

Selwyn shot her a murderous look, but without his wand and with two trained on him, he could do nothing. "Was that necessary?"

"You were hysterical, Selwyn." she reminded him, her wand unwavering.

"You'd gone batty," added Marlene, "quite mad."

"Exactly," Imogen said, amusement edging into her tone, "I had to restrain you before you injured yourself."

Selwyn yanked a clump of hair that had strayed from his neatly-combed locks off his forehead. He was livid; his breaths came in furious pants torn from his lungs, his nostrils flared, and his suit was in disarray.

He looked more than a little bit sexy. A quick glance at Marlene's appraising expression told Imogen she thought so, too. Merlin, she'd _like _to be the cause of his current state of dress. Maybe that would make him less... stiff.

She commended herself quietly on her choice of words. An excellent pun, by all accounts.

"You two – Gryffindors – _insane_ –" he choked out, before clamping his mouth shut.

He took several deep breaths, in and out, for a few minutes, his eyes squeezed closed. While he was doing this, the two girls exchanged questioning looks.

"Er," Imogen said curiously, "what are you doing?"

He opened his eyes. "I'm… calming… down." He explained, between breaths.

"Oh. That's good, I suppose."

"Are you always this ridiculous?" he eyed the two of them disgustedly, and Marlene grinned at him.

Now, Marlene's smiles were always a little disarming. After all, she was an unusually tall girl with a _great _set of legs on her, which she often showcased in her very short skirt, and was intelligent, wickedly funny, _and _had a pearly white set of gnashers. A smile from one Marlene McKinnon had felled many a strong man.

"Yes." She replied.

He swallowed, but held her gaze. Apparently, he was not one to fall victim to his own raging teenage hormones. The expression of distaste lessened somewhat, but not completely. "So you're going to help me?" he asked.

"We are." Imogen said.

Selwyn stepped forward, and held out his hand to shake. She took it. His grip was firm to the point of being almost painful, but she held back her wince. She wasn't going to allow him any modicum of power in this deal.

"You might think I'm scum," he said, still holding onto her hand, "but so do the Dark Lord and his supporters. And if I am scum, then He is scraping me off the porcelain."

"Merlin, are you actually speaking in metaphors right now?" Marlene asked dubiously. "Just say what you mean, it's much easier."

Selwyn shot her an exasperated squint, sighing audibly. "If you're having trouble understanding –"

"Oh, I understand perfectly well, _Pureblood_," she retorted, "but I could do without the dramatics."

They glared at each other.

"Er," Imogen interrupted, removing her hand from Selwyn's death-grip, "the free lesson's going to be finished soon, we should probably… go."

"Right." Selwyn broke away from Marlene's gaze, nodding at Imogen. "I – er. Thank you." he said, rigidly.

"Don't mention it." She told him, motioning for Marlene to give him back his wand.

The other girl handed it to him, albeit reluctantly and with her own still pointing at him. "Seriously," she ordered, "do _not _mention it. At all. To anyone."

He sniffed. "I can assure you," he murmured, "I won't be."

Selwyn gave them one last glance before he ducked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Well." Marlene commented. "That was odd."

"All for his brother?" Imogen mused.

"Apparently so," her friend replied, "Slytherins _are _awful protective of their own, you know. They'd do anything."

"Family is forever, boys are whatever?"

"Don't be silly, Immy darling. It'd be in Latin, at the very least."

**hey there readers! special thanks to all those who followed/reviewed. exams are coming up so the next chapter might be a little late in coming. schedule is one update per fortnight :)**


	4. The Episode

"Sirius." Imogen greeted, sliding into the seat next to him at dinner.

He gave her a grin, shovelling potatoes into his mouth. "'Ello." He said.

"Lovely."

"I try."

She took a deep breath. "Just so you know," she began cautiously, "the majority of the entire school thinks I gave you a blowjob. So you might, er, want to dissuade those rumours."

Sirius immediately inhaled his mouthful of food, coughing and spluttering. "What?" he choked, thumping his chest with one hand.

"Gloria Sawyers has managed to convince herself, and quite a few others, that I'm getting it on with both you and Cumberstone."

He finally managed to gulp down enough potato mash so that his airways were no longer clogged. "Merlin. Did I bother her that much?"

"Apparently. Thanks for defending me, by the way, even if it did have extreme negative effects." Imogen patted his shoulder and began to stack her plate with chicken, bread, and other delicious foods Hogwarts had to offer.

"No problem. Is it true you called her a heinous bitch?"

"Certainly is."

"Right to her face?"

"Indeedy-do."

"Shit," he remarked, eyebrow raised, "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

She grinned at him, and he smiled back, and they ate in companionable silence.

This was the thing with her and Sirius; they never really spoke for extended periods of time. This was normal. A few witty comments, then James, Remus, Gus or Marlene would plonk down into the seat opposite or next to and kick the conversation up the backside.

The odd, in-depth discussions – if you could call them that, even they were quite short – were relatively new to their particular brand of friendship.

Imogen was just beginning to relax, the knots in her shoulders loosening after a long, confusing day when James thudded down on the bench right next to her.

"Gen." he said, uncharacteristically serious.

"Mmf?" she asked, chewing a piece of bread.

"Is it true," he began delicately, wetting his lips, "that you are engaging in some kind of torrid affair with both Padfoot and the newly-appointed Professor Cumberstone?"

She swallowed. "No. Although I'm flattered that anyone would think I'm able to manage that," she added thoughtfully, "hm. Actually, yes it is true. Very true. At least the Cumberstone part."

"Oi." Sirius protested.

James sighed in relief. "Thank Merlin," he moaned, massaging his temples, "that would've been _awful_."

"Sorry?" Imogen laughed, disbelievingly.

"It's just," he fidgeted, hazel eyes darting between her and Sirius, "the idea of you two… well, it's worrying."

"Worrying?" Sirius asked, leaning forward to peer past Imogen and squint at his best friend.

"Er," was his expressive reply.

"Spit it out, mate." Sirius urged, eyes narrowing.

"Well, it's just that... um..."

"James," Imogen warned, "tell. Now."

"Yes James. Do tell. Why is it _worrying?_"

"Youreamanho." James mumbled, barely moving his lips.

"What?"

"Yes." James nodded, relieved.

Imogen thumped him. "No, you twit. What did you say?"

His relieved expression dropped, followed by that of pain, then of discomfort. "_Ow._" he whined.

"_James_."

"OK, fine, fine." He pushed her hands away, frowning. "I said, you are a man whore."

Sirius reeled backwards, almost slamming into a fifth year boy, who gave him a dirty look before shuffling further down the bench. "_Man whore?_" he demanded incredulously.

"I thought you were going to say something nice about us both being too evil." Imogen noted, grinning. "But this is better. I like this."

Sirius ignored her, staring past at his best friend. "Do you bring my _virtue _into question, sir?"

"Er. Yes?" James squeaked, cowed by the suddenly-thunderous expression that descended upon the other boy.

"And what does it have to do with my courting the young Lady Waters?"

"Well. Ah."

"Yes, _Potter,_" Imogen queried, her interest piqued, twisting round to prop her chin in her hands and adopt a pseudo-innocent expression, "what _does _Mister Black's reputation have to do with his courting me?"

"I… I – erm – _Imogen please don't be mad._" James begged, suddenly grasping one of her little hands in both of his irritatingly large ones. His eyes were wide, fearful – almost comically so, his lips pinched to hamster-like proportions. She recognised the expression as one she hadn't seen in _years, _one usually only instilled by Mrs Potter.

It was James' _I did a bad thing and I regret it immensely because oh shit am I in trouble _expression.

"What did you do?" she demanded, voice lowering.

Her friend whimpered, extending his legs slowly so as to inch away from her, but she grabbed his tie and pulled him close. Rumours be damned. Gloria Sawyer could construct elaborate tales of her 'torrid affairs' as _much as she wanted._

She waited, her face inches from his, staring into the depths of his eyes. She felt Sirius chuckling behind her, no doubt stealing the food off her plate like he always did once her back was turned, despite his own being piled high. James tried to avoid her gaze, but considering her furious expression was filling his line of vision completely (really, all he could see was blonde curls and a twitchy nose), it didn't work too well.

He broke after about five minutes. "Fine!" he shrieked, and she released him. "Fine!"

"What did you _do_, James?"

He cleared his throat, adjusted his tie. He eyed her warily over the rim of his glasses, which had been knocked askew in the altercation. "I –" he swallowed, "I _might _have promised your dad to ward off any inappropriate suitors."

Imogen opened her mouth to retort, but no sound came out except for a growling, disbelieving snarl. Her chest heaved, her fingers curling into fists. Several witnesses would swear that they saw her hair expand in volume, the curls practically _crackling _with electricity.

"Oh, bugger," muttered Sirius, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

He tucked his chin into her shoulder, like he'd seen Remus do sometimes, whenever the tiny girl's rage got the better of her. You could never be too sure with Waters and whatever the hell she'd do next – whether it be deciding that jumping off the Astronomy Tower to test the strength of _wingardium leviosa_ was a fantastic idea, or trying to dye her cauldron purple – but if there was one golden rule, it was _for Merlin's sake if she goes quiet _sound the alarm. Her hair tickled his nose, and he shuffled so that she was wedged between his thighs. Even when he was hunched over, Waters was immediately swamped in his robes.

"_You what?_" she hissed, in a teensy-tiny voice, barely aware of the boy holding her back. "When?"

James' eyes darted from side to side, his lips pursed, colour rising to his cheeks. "Er. Erm."

"_James Potter –_"

"F – fifth year."

She hissed.

He was paralysed; unable to flee, trapped within the spectrum of _the look _that was radiating from Imogen's bulging eyes.

"Hey, strangelings. What's the – oh, shit." Gus shuddered to a halt next to where his fellow Gryffindor sat, grimacing at the somewhat familiar sight of Imogen Waters chucking a fit.

She barely registered his presence, being far too absorbed in the _apoplectic rage _that was churning inside her at both her father's and James' meddling in her romantic life.

"Boys," Sirius instructed, tightening his hold on Imogen, his voice slightly muffled by her hair, "I'd run."

*.*

"_I am so angry._" Waters ranted, pacing back and forth in the abandoned classroom. "_I am filled with righteous fury._"

"I know." Sirius said shortly, using his wand to clean the dirt from under his fingernails. "You mentioned that."

"He has no _right! _No right, whatso_ever _to decide who I do and do not shag!"

"Er," he interrupted, coughing, "I think it was courting. Not shagging."

Waters ignored him, fuming. She was muttering to herself, one hand planted on her hips while the other brandished her wand, cheeks flushed and lips red from biting. Her hair had, indeed, increased in size, and was now springing from her head in wiry curls. She looked like a cute, albeit demented, doll.

Sirius frowned. Cute? He peered closer at his friend. _Was _she? True, she had a cute little upturned nose, and eyes that were too big for her face, and a cute little rosebud mouth – in fact, to an unbiased witness, she was _very _cute. Adorable, even. Well, in the sense that she had all the characteristics of _cute_.

_Say cute again, _said a voice that sounded remarkably like James'.

_Cute, _he thought, in retaliation, watching as Waters fisted a hand in her crazy hair, scowling in distaste. He didn't pay much mind to the fact that he was arguing with himself. She said something, probably to him, and he nodded but he wasn't listening – only watching how she ran her teeth along her bottom lip. And yeah, it was pretty damned adorable.

His frown deepened. He'd never considered that, before. He'd always seen Waters as, well, _Waters. _James' best friend outside the Marauders, his mate, good for a laugh and a bit feisty. The short little thing that somehow managed to get into as much trouble as they did, probably at the fault of Prongs. Moony's swotty buddy, at least until Sammy came along. On par with Gus in terms of familiarity. Pretty, sure, but never _cute._

She gave a particularly irritated shriek, jolting him out of his reverie.

_At least she's not quiet, _he thought, checking his watch. It was ten thirty. Three and a half hours, her anger had lasted. Three and a _half. _He was both impressed and irritated. He went to interrupt, to tell her _oi mate it's time to simmer down I'm tired_, but then she – she dropped her wand.

And picked it up.

This, of course, wasn't unusual. When flying into irrational bouts of fury, Waters tended to get clumsy. What _was _unusual, however, was the rather nice bum that suddenly came into view when she bent at the waist. And the legs.

_Merlin, _the legs. Why hadn't he noticed those before? Maybe because they were so far down. Or because the knees were so distracting. He squinted. They _did _look angry, didn't they?

Sirius wet his lips as she straightened, shifting uncomfortably. Wondering why on earth he was suddenly so horribly affected by this. He'd seen bums before. Many bums. A whole _parade _of perfectly nice bums and legs; never mind Imogen Waters'. He tilted his head slightly as she straightened up. Merlin, they were firm, too, and the skirt she was wearing didn't do much to hide it, either.

She whirled to look at him, and his gaze snapped up. To her lips, which were parted in surprise. "What?" she asked, and he realised that he must've said something out loud.

"Er. Sorry?" Sirius mumbled, staring at her swollen mouth, her flushed cheeks. _Stop it, _he told himself, swallowing.

"You said something? About a firm?"

"No." he replied, shortly, swinging his legs forward to leap off the desk upon which he sat. "I didn't. No firms. No… firmness, at all. Done with your _righteous fury, _then?"

Waters gave an irritated grumble, opening her mouth to make some sharp retort, but in three long strides he was right in front of her and his hand was gently pressing on her lips. "Mm – _mmf,_" she began, but he shook his head.

"Before you start, I'm not trying to say your opinion is invalid," he assured her, bringing up his other hand to pat her on the shoulder, "you've made your point. But it's _ten thirty _and we need to get ourselves to bed."

She quirked an eyebrow.

"Not –" he stammered, taking a step back and moving his hand from her mouth, "not _together _– I just mean –"

She scoffed out a laugh, eyes twinkling. "I know _that, _Sirius. Merlin, you're blushing!"

"I am not."

"You _so _are. Why, is your virtue in danger of being," she lowered her voice, pouting suggestively, "compromised?"

He chuckled nervously, slapping on a bright, toothy grin. "'Course not," he said, refusing to think of what Imogen Waters compromising his virtue would look like, "can we go? I need my beauty sleep."

The feeble joke appeared to work, and she snorted, punching him lightly on the arm. "Alright. I'm sorry for keeping you," she added, sheepishly, peering at him through her lashes. "Sirius, you really didn't have to stay."

_I wanted to. _"Eh," he shrugged, "_someone _had to make sure you didn't hunt Prongs down."

Her expression turned worries. "Bugger," she murmured, chewing on her lip, "I wasn't _too _mean, was I?"

Sirius arched an eyebrow, stubbornly ignoring how appealing her mouth suddenly looked. _Sleep deprivation, _he told himself, _that's all it is. _Everyone knew that lack of sleep could intoxicate someone just as well as a good bit of firewhiskey – he was drunk, and people were always more attractive when you were drunk. "No meaner than Evans."

"Ah."

"Mm-hm."

Waters sighed, but straightened her back. "I'll apologise when he does." She said resolutely, more to herself than to him.

He nodded. That was what usually happened, after one of her temper tantrums. She would fire up, blaze around for a few hours, then settle down. At least, that's what Moony always told him. The more placid of the boys tended to be the one who could calm her down, but he hadn't been there at dinner, so Sirius had had to fill in. Her furious 'episodes', as the boys tended to dub them, didn't happen often at all – but her reputation with spell-work and the fact that she was normally quite easy-going made it all the more terrifying, and worthy of note.

"Sirius," Waters said suddenly, quietly, "I _am _sorry."

Before he really acknowledged what he was doing, he'd reached out and brushed his fingertips over her back, lightly skimming up and down her spine. "'S OK." He muttered, mortified.

While both he and Waters tended to be rather touchy-feely with their friends (he with the Marauders, her with Evans and McKinnon), and they'd hugged more than once – this was different. It was lighter and heavier at the same time; a caress that spoke volumes. Her eyes flicked up to his, her brow creased in a frown.

He jerked his hand back, clearing his throat.

Waters gave a nervous little laugh, turning towards the door. "Ten thirty, you say?" she asked brightly, changing the subject.

"Yup." Sirius put his hands deep in his pockets, so as to avoid any more unwarranted touching, staring at the ground.

"Well, at least nobody can say my stamina is lacking."

"You're just doing that on purpose, now." He groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Intimidated, Sirius?" Waters asked loftily, skipping ahead to open the door and peek down the hallways.

He laughed. "By _what?_"

She shot a glance at him over her shoulder, a wry half-grin tugging at the corner of her lips. "My ability to last longer."

This only garnered her another eye-roll. She waggled her eyebrows at him, jerked her head in a _come on _sort of gesture, telling him that the coast was clear. Even if they _were _sixth years, curfew was 10pm, and detention in the first week for something as dull as staying out late was an embarrassment they both wanted to avoid.

They walked in companionable silence, stopping only to indulge in dramatic displays of over-the-top stealthy action. After the fifth time Waters forced him to flatten himself against the wall and edge his way along it, while she made strange hand-gestures to direct him, he'd had enough.

"Bugger it," he hissed, interrupting her mid wavey finger-waggle thing.

Sirius lunged forward, grasping Waters firmly around the waist, hauling her up and over his shoulder. It was fairly easy, considering he had the arms of a beater and she the weight of a chubby kitten, yet he found himself staggering somewhat at the sudden sight of her bare, toned legs.

_Bare? _He wondered, scowling at the absence of stocking. Wasn't she cold?

"_You absolute sack of shit._" She whisper-shrieked, trying desperately to straighten at the waist, but to no avail.

"Do shut up, dearest," he replied, "we're nearly at the Common Room."

She whined, thudding her little fists against his backside.

_Wahey, _he thought, then promptly told himself to shut up.

"This is going to do _nothing _for the cunnilingus rumours, Sirius!" Waters hissed.

"Neither is you trying to grab my bum."

"I am not!"

"Are too. Just did it, I felt your wanton little hands –"

"_Wanton?_"

"Yes. Wanton."

"I'm not speaking to you."

He shrugged, wincing when the motion jostled her frame, eliciting a, quite frankly, terrifying growl from her. "That's fine with me. We'll get there faster."

He could almost _feel _the irritation rolling off her in waves, but she remained steadfast in her vow of silence.

At least until they reached the Common Room.

*.*

"Immy!" James cried, jumping up from his plush armchair in the Gryffindor Common Room. His hair was wilder than usual, his shirt untucked, and his hazel eyes darted between her face and her hands (balled into fists) behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

Imogen sniffed, straightening her skirt, which had no doubt been hiked up past her _bloody _waist while she was being manhandled by Sirius. Luckily, only the Marauders plus Gus and Marlene were out of bed, and thanks to James "Traitor" Potter, most of them already knew about the lacy/black quality of her knickers. "Yes. Hello."

Peter tittered nervously. Remus waved, chewing on a bar of chocolate. Marlene grinned. Gus flicked his gaze from her, to Sirius, to Sirius' hand (which was, weirdly, still on her back), and _then _grinned.

James grasped her shoulder at the same time she felt the fingers slip from the base of her spine. "Immy," he said again, peering into her eyes apologetically, "I am _so sorry._"

"Really."

"Yes. I won't do it again."

"Is that why Prescott never asked me out?" she demanded, raising an eyebrow.

"He was a complete and utter cock! I _had _to have a word with him."

"And by word," Remus piped up, "he means _slight kidnapping and interrogation, of which both activities the rest of us were forced to partake in_. Sorry about that, by the way."

Imogen gave an outraged gasp, turning to glare at Sirius. He grinned his lopsided grin, shrugging. Smug bastard. At least he was acting somewhat normal again. She directed her glare – hardly on par with _the look, _but intimidating enough – back to James. "Bloody _hell, _you prat. He was _cute!_"

She felt Sirius tense behind her. Weird. And why was he standing so close, anyway?

"He may have been aesthetically pleasing," James began haughtily, "but from what I hear, that is the _only _way he pleased."

"Oh, come _on. _His nickname is Silvertongue Prescott, don't start that rubbish with –"

"Actually," Marlene interjected, "that nickname is wrongly given."

They all turned to look at her.

"What?" she asked. "Don't pretend that none of _you _blokes get around."

"_Anyway,_" Imogen said, before the boys and Marlene could argue about their various adventures in bed, "what about that Hufflepuff seventh year?"

"I, uh," James announced sheepishly, "May have sent a few… threatening letters."

"_Why?_"

"He wasn't worthy of you!"

Imogen let out a frustrated little screech. "I would've liked to decide that for my_self, _thanks,"

James shifted. She sighed.

"Daniel Greene?" she asked. "He told me he'd take me out to Hogsmeade. Never delivered."

"Merlin, Waters," Gus exclaimed, "you've got quite the list, haven't you?"

She was about to make a retort, but Sirius grasped her shoulder and spun her round to face him. "Greene?" he asked, incredulous, "you went for _Greene?_"

Imogen went to take a step back but he followed, moving forward so that he was inches away. He loomed over her, his hand a gentle pressure on her arm, warm breath ruffling her hair. At least he wasn't stroking her, like he had in the classroom. Despite Sirius being fairly comfortable with touching people, this was… new, for him. They rarely broke the careful barriers that they both had in place, him from a young age and her from the awful summer in fourth year – but suddenly, it seemed they were breaking every wall they'd ever built and re-constructing them.

She wondered if it was the impending war. Perhaps they were just _changing – _people changed, didn't they? And it either brought others close together or pushed them apart. She was glad that, at least, she was gaining something rather than losing it. Even if she wasn't quite sure what that _something _was.

Imogen swallowed back her surprise, and – Merlin, she _really _needed to have a chat with him about personal space. And manhandling. And _petting _people; that had just been really weird. Who petted their friends?

"So?" she shot back. "Does it mat –"

"Yes!" he interrupted, then closed his mouth. And opened it again. And closed. For a moment, she thought he was doing an excellent impersonation of a fish, and was torn between commending him and pinching his arm. "I mean, I. Uh. He's –"

James let out a high, shrill giggle, manoeuvring his way between them so that he was facing Imogen. "What Pads here _means _to say," he amended, "is that Greene is sort of a massive prick."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is or has?"

He sputtered. "_Gen!_" he choked, cheeks flaming, scandalised.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she sighed, "I'm _joking._ Bloody hell, you can't take _everything _seriously."

"Does that mean I'm forgiven?" he asked, hopefully.

She slitted her eyes. "No."

He sagged. "But - "

"Nup."

"_Imogeeeen - _"

"_No._"

He looked at her earnestly, with wide eyes and a trembling lip. She sighed.

"I want piggybacks. To every class. For a _week._"

Her best friend grinned. "Done."

"Now apologise."

James lowered himself to his knees before her, grasping her hands in his. Rather humiliatingly, he was only a little bit shorter than she was while kneeling. She let it go, focusing on the excellent amount of grovelling he was going to have to perform. "Imogen," he began, his expression grave, "I am _so sorry _for letting your father persuade me –"

"What did he do, seduce him?" Sirius murmured from behind her, and she snorted.

" – shut up, Pads. I'm sorry, Gen, for meddling."

"Because?"

James sighed. "Because it is no business of mine who you do and do not shag –"

"Court."

He cast his friend an irritated look. "I am _trying _to grovel, if you don't mind."

"Sorry, mate."

"Thank you. And you are not cattle to be shipped from man to man under the direction of your father, or of me, as neither of us – nor anyone else – owns you." He finished, nodding.

Imogen lifted her eyebrows in surprise. "Blimey," she commented, impressed.

He grinned. "I've been reading _Jane Eyre_."

She returned the sentiment, flashing a bright smile, and enveloped him in a hug. As best she could, anyway, what with his broad shoulders and her short arms. "Sorry, mate. I didn't want to get that mad."

"Eh. It's all good, Gen."

"Good."

"Good."

"Good-o."

"Splendiddly."

"Marvelliosity."

"Brill –"

"Alright," Sirius sighed, "I think that's enough, you mad idiots."

"What's wrong, Black?" Gus piped up, and when Imogen disentangled herself from James' embrace, she saw that he was smirking. "Are you the only gentleman allowed to… ah, _tangle _with Waters here?"

"Ha," the dark-haired boy replied sarcastically, "you're hilarious."

"As you should well know by now, _King,_" Imogen shot back, "I tangle with many a gent. As perpetuated by the Hogwarts Gossip Mill, of course."

Marlene snorted. "Still shagging Cumberstone, then?"

"Oh, _all night long, _darling."

"Mmn." Her friend agreed, smacking her lips. "He _is _something."

"Those eyes."

"Those _legs._"

"That _arse._" They sighed, and James coughed.

"As much as we _do _enjoy all this…" he gestured dramatically, "horny lady talk, I think we should all go to bed."

Imogen rolled her eyes at the mention of _horny lady talk, _but shrugged. "Yeah. 'M tired, anyways."

The others murmured their agreements, unfolding their limbs to stand and make their ways to their prospective dorms. The boys said their _goodnights _in passing; Remus folding her in a hug and whispering _sorry _into her hair (out of all of them, he understood her anger problems the most), Peter booping her nose affectionately, Gus putting his hands on her cheeks and squishing them. James lingered, ruffling her hair with one last apologetic grin, but it was Sirius who stayed the longest.

He smiled at her, sheepishly, his hands in his pockets. "So, er," he said, ignoring Marlene - who waited at the foot of the stairs, tutting.

"Yeah," Imogen agreed, even though she wasn't sure _what _exactly she was agreeing to.

He pressed his lips together. "G'night, I suppose," he muttered.

She nodded. "Night, Sirius."

She was about to turn away, when he ducked forward and, winding one arm about her waist to pull her closer, planted a soft, warm, close-mouthed kiss to her temple. Imogen made an embarrassingly strangled noise in her throat, but before she could say _oi mate hands off _he was gone, taking the stairs to the boy's dormitory two steps at a time, overtaking a stunned-looking James.

She looked towards Marlene, whose expression was of a similar state, and made another odd noise. This one, accompanied by lots of pointing and _waahs._

"Let's... go," her friend said slowly.

Imogen squawked.

*.*

"Alright," James demanded, slamming the dormitory door closed, "what was that?"

Sirius winced, turning slowly round to face his friend. "Er," was all he said, "what was what?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Pads. Why," his friend's tone was dangerously low, the menacing step he took forward similar to a prowl, "are you acting all weird around Waters?"

"I - I don't know what you mean." he replied, crossing his arms defensively.

Augustus snorted from behind them, sliding his long legs off the mattress he reclined on. "Come off it, mate. You were acting _very _weird."

"Why were you gone that long, anyway?" James asked suspiciously, eyeing his friend up and down. "It usually takes Moony less than an hour to calm her down. _You _took _three._"

Sirius swallowed, thickly, very aware of the assumptions that were forming in his friends' minds. "Whatever you're thinking - "

"Merlin's balls," Remus said incredulously, "you bloody snogged her, didn't you?"

The reaction was instantaneous. The other boys in the dorm - Greene (the bastard) and Smith - turned their attention to him immediately, the former looking nervous and a bit eager, the latter looking dumbstruck.

"Imogen let you snog her?" Greene asked, in his wormy little voice.

Gus' gingery head whipped towards him, mouth hanging open. "For three fucking hours, Black?"

"_Snogged _Waters - "

" - she any good - "

" - where - "

"_Bastard,_" James hissed, "you snogged Waters! _You don't touch Waters _you - you manwhore!"

"Might I remind you of your little speech, earlier, mate? Waters can do what she likes. And I didn't _bloody _snog her." he retorted, trying not to let imaginings of Imogen pressed up against the inside of a broomcloset, hair messy, lips swollen, skirt around her - _focus._

Gus gave him a shrewd look. "Why were you all... touchy, then?"

"Merlin!" he threw his hands up dramatically - Sirius always thought he was meant for the stage - and sighed. "Can't I be touchy with my mates? I'm touchy with you lot, aren't I?"

"Unfortunately," Remus and Peter muttered simultaneously, both sporting the weary look in their eyes of people who had been subjected to far too many a bum-pinching by another man.

Sirius shrugged. _He _thought it was funny.

"I _know _Imogen can do what she likes," his best mate said testily, "it's just... you tend to mess about, mate. I don't want her to get - to get -"

"Attached," he continued, dismally, "strung along."

"Right. Just - whatever you two do is _your business, _and same goes for your relationship - "

"There's no relationship, bloody hell - "

"_But,_" James announced, holding up one righteous finger, "if you make her cry, even _one tear, _I will..."

Sirius grimaced, preparing himself for a graphic description of splinters shoved where splinters should not go, or elaborate spells and their effects on his hoo-ha.

"… do nothing," the other boy finished.

He frowned. "Nothing?"

"Yep."

"Really?" Sirius asked, unwinding.

James grinned nasily. "Don't look so relieved," he crowed, "by _nothing _I also mean I won't hold Waters back when she decides to hex you inside-out."

The boys, in perfect unison, flinched.


	5. The Brothers Selwyn

"You are so lucky you're pretty," Marlene commented, lazily eyeing Selwyn's form.

She lounged in the corner of their empty classroom, legs crossed, twirling one strand of blonde hair around her finger. Since it was a Saturday afternoon, she was clad in casual – or what passed for casual, with Marlene – clothes; tight-fitting dark blue blouse, even tighter jeans, and black ankle boots with a heel that could probably puncture someone's lung with the right amount of force behind it. There was a lazy, sardonic smile dripping of her ruby lips, eyes glinting with sharp cunning – one that made Imogen wonder if Marlene had more in common with their resident snake than she thought.

The loyalty was there, for definite. Her mum had once said that the proper difference between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin was that a Gryffindor would stand up for their friends, and a Slytherin would ensure that whoever had wrong their friend in the first place went to their grave regretting it. Imogen regarded Marlene's sharp-toothed gaze, deciding that this particular Gryffindor had venom as well as claws. She envied her, a bit. Imogen managed the claws rather well, but she'd never managed to pull off that cool, calm and condescending thing the Slytherins seemed to ooze from every pore. Too hot-headed, she supposed.

Marcus blew out an irritated huff, dropping his wand arm. He stood in the centre of the room, facing Imogen, with his feet too close together and his attention diverted. Imogen made a noise of frustration. "No," she said, for what seemed like the thousandth time that day, "don't let your guard down. Always keep it up when you're in a duel, alright? Always."

He ignored her. "What are you insinuating?" he demanded, glaring fiercely at Marlene.

She didn't look perturbed. Instead, her expression was one of boredom - her posture, that of ease. She shrugged, her tone sugary sweet. "Oh, nothing. Only that your spellwork's useless and your reflexes are … lacking."

His nostrils flared. He scraped back a lock of his hair that had fallen out of place with a heavy hand. "I –" he began angrily, but Marlene continued as if she hadn't heard.

"It's just a bloody good job you've got your looks, is all."

It wasn't a compliment; that much was obvious.

Imogen had to agree with her friend. Marcus Selwyn, for all his pureblood swagger, was quite useless at Defence Against the Dark Arts. He hadn't managed to block a single spell from her; instead of physically dodging where he could, the Slytherin tended to conjure shields at every interval, which slowed him down. If they'd been strong shields, it wouldn't have mattered – but they were easily broken by a few well-aimed hexes, and he didn't seem to have much control over them.

"Doesn't matter!" she said, cheerily. "Let's keep going."

She might have snapped, if Selwyn didn't always get so delightfully wary at her whenever she thought to shoot a smile in his direction. He got this wonderful pinched look about him; as if he thought she might hex him if he did anything other than freeze and look like a startled, if incredibly snobbish, rabbit. Which, actually, she probably would. It was 'Defence Club'.

As it were, he cast her a nervous glance, and raised his wand again.

"This time," she told him, "don't just cast a shield straight away – try to dodge the spell, and chuck one back."

"I don't chuck," he retorted, "and why should I dodge? That seems very... non-magical."

"So is walking," Imogen reminded him, pointedly.

His only reply was to roll his eyes.

Hers was to cast a Babbling Curse in his direction.

Selwyn cried out and jerked to the right, the spell skimming his torso by mere inches. He stumbled; an expelliarmus shot from his wand – she sidestepped it easily, pivoting on her right foot, and slashed an oppugno at the table behind him.

It shot forward, caught him at the knees. He fell back and, in a nifty little move that surprised her, rolled sideways off its surface and into a lopsided crouch. He threw an obvious jelly-legs jinx at her ankles. She skipped over it, a breathless laugh jolting from her lungs. Her left foot hit the ground –expelliarmus, fluid arm movement – and his wand went soaring into her hand.

She snatched it from the air. "Good!" she exclaimed.

Selwyn cut his eyes at her. "Good?" he scorned. "How – that wasn't good."

Imogen strode towards him, handed back his wand. "Well," she began, "you actually moved, this time. Quick on your feet, you are. Creative."

He stowed his wand in the pocket of his suit, scowling at her. "Oh," he said sarcastically, "brilliant! I'm creative. Hold on, just let me paint the Dark Lord away, why don't you?"

"Oi," chimed in Marlene from the corner, "don't take the Grand Twat's name in vain. Have some respect."

Imogen sighed. Twirled her wand. "Again," she instructed. A crack about fetching him some paper and stationary danced on her tongue; she swallowed it. Defence was serious work.

Selwyn shook his head; a short, sharp gesture that sent the messy strands of his hair cascading over his brow. "No," he said, in a tone that was almost close to begging, "we've been going for two hours. Straight. It's Saturday night – don't you two have anything better to do?"

"Several list's worth," Marlene interjected drily, "the top five of which include joining a band of merry anal fisters. How about you, Immy?"

"Not really." Imogen muttered. "I'd rather not hang around the boys – " coughed, swiped the back of her palm over her mouth "er – the Gryffindors, right now."

"So the patriotism gets to you too," the Slytherin noted, raising his eyebrows, "surprising."

"No-one's keeping you here, dearest." Marlene pushed off the wall she leant on, joining them in the centre of the room. She gestured towards the door with one hand, the other toying with the buttons of her blouse. "Leave whenever you like."

Selwyn's eyes flicked to the navy blue material, then back up again. As per usual, he faltered in the face of Marlene's stunning looks and razor-sharp wit. Imogen hid a smile.

He took a breath. Squeezed his eyes shut. His gaze hardened into something rawboned, then; grief as evident as the fatigue that was almost permanently etched into his skin. He clenched his jaw. The Pureblood ducked his chin angrily, and the action seemed to grind away every harsh edge he possessed – to Imogen, he was suddenly younger, the trembling in his bones more obvious, the dark circles under his eyes deeper. The almost-casual charcoal dress shirt and trousers he'd worn in place of his usual suit looked too big for him, the sleeves rolled up past his forearms practically billowing around his elbows. His fingers were pale and spidery, twitching and curling over the skin of his wrists, as if they itched. As if there was something beneath that he wanted to scratch out.

Imogen's mind skittered, briefly, over the old medieval concept of leeching. "She's right. You can leave, if you want." She held his gaze, raising one challenging eyebrow.

His returning stare was stony as always – but this time, there were cracks beneath the mortar. "I need to protect my brother," he said, lamely.

"Why." she demanded, aiming her wand at him.

He shot her a quizzical look. "You know –"

"The first lesson I ever learned about duelling," Imogen interrupted, beginning to circle him purposefully, "was that skill doesn't always win. Sometimes pure, bloody ferocity, and desperation, is the only thing that gives you the upper hand."

Selwyn blinked, but retreated slowly, eyes fixed on her wand. From the corner of her eye, she saw Marlene's expression turn grim. The other girl stepped out of proximity, returning to her corner to watch.

"The second lesson I learned was that something always drives that ferocity. A belief. A person. Loss," Imogen flicked a stinging hex that he staggered sideways to avoid, "is the most common." Her voice did not falter; Imogen's spine was straight and underneath consonants flowed pure steel – that old Gryffindor concrete covered her back, mighty and forceful. She felt it in each step, each breath.

Selwyn snarled and snatched his wand from his pocket. He hissed stupefy and she dodged the red jet of light easily, casting a narrow augumentistraight for his eyes. He spluttered through the water and slashed his wand downwards blindly – something purple went wide and clattered against a desk – it crumpled, its legs quivering uncontrollably, papers tumbling onto the floor.

Imogen sent him sprawling with a gust of air, surging forward with a follow-up hex that rendered him dazed, wand clutched loosely in his hand. She danced backwards with the sort of grace and speed that belonged to the crest of his house rather than hers before he had a chance to respond. "When the Malfoys come for you, the Blacks, the Lestranges – and they will – when they come, you have to remember –"

The Pureblood roared and lunged, wand spitting a fiery arc towards her. She dropped and rolled – scorching heat ripping right above her head – crouched. Forced him back with a confringo at his feet. "Remember what you're fighting for!" she called to him. Imogen wrenched her wand through the air again and again, twisting and coiling, magic booming through her and crackling in the space between them.

He went to reply but was forced to dodge hex after hex after hex, tripping over his shoes, until he could barely breathe for wheezing, holding up his hands in surrender. "Stop – stop," he choked out, sweat plastering hair to his forehead.

Imogen kept her wand fixed on him. Her breathing was slightly laboured, nothing more. "Why are you doing this?"

Selwyn looked at her with mouth slack, eyes wary. He swallowed. "My brother," he told her, hoarsely.

She gritted her teeth. "No. Why are you doing this? Why are you fighting? When the Purebloods come to kill you and your family – why are you fighting? Loss? Anger?"

"Both."

"Wrong."

"I –"

Imogen shook her head sharply. "Wrong. You'd be better if it was for your brother. You'd be more determined. What do you want to do, when the Purebloods come?"

He closed his eyes. His mouth trembled, as did his hands. He looked young again. Then, his gaze snapped to hers again, ice-blue and cold.

"I want to kill them," he whispered.

"Revenge," she told him, "will only ever end up killing you."

"What do you fight for, then?" he spat poisonously, lifting his chin. The boy was gone. The imperious Pureblood took his rightful place once more. "Glory? A sense of Gryffindor good?"

"I had a brother, once –" choked, continued, "Death Eaters. I fight for him."

Something flickered in Selwyn's eyes, tightened his lips and jaw. "The Malfoys – ?"

She shook her head. "It wasn't… proven."

He saw the look she gave Marlene, frowned. "You know it was them, though."

Imogen hissed a breath in through her teeth. It was like a hot dagger in her chest, sizzling away at old wounds. "Yeah. I do."

Selwyn gave her a cruel, disbelieving look. "Then why?" he demanded. "If you know it was them who killed your brother – why not avenge him? Why not let it drive you?"

"Revenge is all…" she swallowed. "All fire. You've felt how it burns, yeah? I went after Lucius last year. Or tried to, anyway. Had no training. My wand, and like, three defence spells I could've used," a tiny smile quirked at her lips, "but I cornered him."

"Someone stopped you." He said. "You'd have been destroyed, otherwise."

"Yeah. Someone did. That's why you shouldn't. Going after them with that in you. With all the grief – anger – it'll eat you up. It'll kill you. You can't –" she shook her head, "win, with that recklessness. It won't work."

Marlene spoke up finally, and her tone was about as dismal as it ever got. "Death Eaters killed my whole family. Trust me, I know you want more than anything to slaughter the bastards. It's normal, of course. But," she crossed her arms, sighing, "it doesn't help."

His chest heaved, once. "Why did they – why?"

Her lips pursed, Marlene spoke softly. "My parents spoke out against the murder of innocents, that's why."

He looked to Imogen. She jut out her chin and looked at the floor. When she opened her mouth, there was something broken to her tone that even she could hear. "My brother was … in the wrong place. And a Muggle."

Selwyn swallowed. Straightened his spine. Smoothing down the pleats in his trousers and adjusting the straps of his elastic braces, he took deep breaths. "The killing of children is," he murmured, "regrettable." His jaw was tense but his eyes were bright, staring somewhere past her shoulder, and she knew it was his brother he saw in his mind's eye.

Imogen felt Marlene walk over to her. Her friend put an arm about her shoulder, pulling her close. "Alright, darling?" she muttered, under her breath.

Imogen pulled away. "Fine," she said, resolutely. She turned to Selwyn, indicating for him to raise his wand. "Again."

*.*

There was a small boy waiting on the stairs for her when she arrived at Gryffindor tower, three hours after she'd left straight from dinner to go for a walk.

Imogen glanced at him, at his green-striped tie and icy blue eyes, and stopped. "You're Marcus Selwyn's little brother." she said, one foot resting on the step upon which he sat.

His little hands were resting on bony knees. He wore expensive clothes, just as his sibling did, and had the same hair and eyes, but his stare was less sure and his expression so young. "I am," he replied. His tone was clipped, each syllable polished and perfect. It clashed with the youthfulness of his voice; he was only a child, and it was late – he stifled a yawn, his words croaking and tired.

There was an awkward pause, in which Imogen wondered if she should just barrel past him and tear up the stairs to safety. He stared at her, unblinking. Merlin.

"He's always looking at you. And that other girl. He's always going off to spend time with you as well." he said accusingly, his young face creased in anger.

"Uh," she broke off, glancing towards the Fat Lady, "I know him through – through class –"

"Are you his girlfriend?" the boy demanded, his bottom lip trembling.

"Fuck no – shit – I mean, um, no." Imogen coughed. "I – not at all."

He frowned. "What about that other girl – is she his girlfriend?"

"Bloody hell," she exclaimed, "nobody is Selwyn's girlfriend. Not that I know of, I mean. He could have a girlfriend – anyway. We – you'll have to ask him, alright? What – what's your name?"

"Terence," he said, tapping his fingers restlessly on his knees, "and he won't say. I already asked. I want you to tell me. Now."

Imogen raised an eyebrow at his authoritative tone. Definitely a Selwyn. "Uh, can't, sorry." she told him, warily. "It's his secret to tell."

She understood. He'd wanted to keep his little brother out of danger, and that applied to his knowledge of it, too. Terence's time at Hogwarts wasn't to be tainted.

A sort of petulant fury unique only to children passed over the boy's features – covered with a layer of baby fat, but underneath it all was a definite sharp nobility that was mirrored in his brother's face – and he scowled. "He's my family!"

"Um." she said, looking around. There was nobody else on the stairs except for them; everyone else had actually obeyed the curfew. Imogen wondered, for a moment, if she should do the same – and then cleared her throat past the barely-suppressed shudder that went through her at the thought of law-abiding. "Yes. I know."

He looked at her expectantly. "So you have to tell me!"

"Terence," Imogen said, fighting a grin, "I don't really have to tell you anything."

"Tell me or I'll – I'll –"

"You'll what?" she laughed, even though she knew it was cruel. "Throw money at me? Fire some red sparks?"

Terence scrambled to his feet, brand-new robes flapping around his ankles. "Don't make fun of me! I'm a – I'm a Selwyn –" he cleared his throat and said, in clearly practised tones, "I am a member of the noble house Selwyn, highest order of purest blood, and as your superior –"

"Superior?" Imogen asked, sharply. Terence faltered. "Listen, you bloody langer –" she winced, the old Irish slang slipping into her speech again, "listen, kid. I know you're angry that Selw – Marcus has been ignoring you, or something, but that's not an excuse to start harping on about supremacy shite. Fuck. I mean, um. Stuff. Alright?"

He stared up at her – he wasn't much shorter, the little bastard – with narrowed blue eyes. His lip quivered. "He's my family," Terence whimpered again, "I'm all he has and it's my first year and he won't talk – he won't talk – to me –"

"Uhhhhhhhhh," Imogen squeaked, as the little boy's head colliding with her collarbone. Tears flowed thick and fast down his cheeks, soaking the front of her jumper.

Awkwardly, she petted the top of his head as skinny shoulders shook with the force of his sobs. They wracked his thin body, tremoring up and down his spine until his knees almost buckled. She wound her arms around him automatically, the mothering instinct that usually lay so dormant within her wrestling its way to the surface in the face of this poor creature, crying into her chest.

"'S alright pet," she muttered, echoing the words her dad often used to comfort her, "uh. Mm. It's alright. Little'un?"

This only seemed to make him cry harder. Terence clung to her so hard she almost fell over – she let go of him and cartwheeled her arms frantically, tottering back a few steps.

"Uh," she said again, "should I… get someone?"

He mumbled something that sounded horribly like mother, and she blanched.

"Let's get you to your dormitory. It's – it's late. OK?"

His wailing echoed around the corridor, and then tapered off into little hiccups as he nodded, disentangling himself from Imogen's arms. With slumped shoulders, wan expression, and more than a bit of snot on his chin, he no longer looked like the picture-perfect Slytherin son.

She delved into the pocket of her coat and yanked out a wad of tissues. "Here," she said, handing them to him, "might want to clean up a bit."

Terence nodded miserably, wiping furiously at his face and hands. "You're not angry?"

She shrugged. "Nah."

"I called myself superior." He reminded, eyeing her suspiciously.

"You don't really believe that, though. Do you?"

He ducked his head in exactly the same way his brother seemed to, frowning. "I don't know," he muttered, "Mr and Mrs Harper say it's rubbish."

"Are those your guardians?" Imogen asked, holding out her hand.

He took it, clasping her fingers tightly. She'd meant the tissues, but didn't mind. She smiled encouragingly at him as he began to lead her down the corridor.

"Yes. They are."

"Do you like them?"

Terence twisted his mouth, but not entirely distastefully. "They're not mother and father, but they're nice to me. Nicer than the Slytherins." The last bit was said with a large degree of bitterness – he spat the words as if they were poison, too much malice for such a small boy.

"Did they do something to you?" she found herself asking, sharply. A sort of fierce indignation rose within her at the thought of this child, this bairn, cowering and alone in the shadows of his crueller peers.

He sniffled. "They call the Harpers 'Blood Traitors'," he told her, "I think Marcus is worried they're going to attack us."

Imogen was silent for a moment, listening to the echo of their footsteps reverberating around the dark, winding passages. They were only minutes away from the dungeons, now. To be perfectly honest, she was curious about the location of the Slytherin common rooms; rumour had it, everythingwas green. "I think they might, if we're not careful."

"We?" he inquired.

"Your brother's –" not friend, no, but she didn't exactly want him hurt, " – an alright bloke. He wants what's best for you. Marlene and me, we'll help you out."

Terence gave her a watery half-smile. She squeezed his hand tight, then let go.

"Are you alright for me to go, little'un?" she asked.

He scowled. "Terence," he muttered correctively, but he didn't seem all that bothered. "You can leave."

She tried not to frown at his attempt to order her around. Shifting from foot to foot, she looked down at him. Awkwardly patted his shoulder. "Tomorrow's Sunday, you know."

He shot her a quizzical look. "I know that."

"On Sundays," Imogen lowered her voice, "I take a walk around the lake at about four."

Terence's lips tugged up in a quick, barely-there smile. "Th – thank you." he muttered, and ducked through the entrance to the dungeons, looking back in time only to catch her small wave.

She watched, arm held aloft, as the darkness swallowed his retreating form. Imogen pressed her lips together. He reminded her so painfully of him,her own little brother, and her heart clenched at the thought of Terence going back to a dormitory where he felt so alone.

She checked her watch. Midnight. She wasn't sure why she was surprised, she seemed to be allergic to timekeeping. Imogen sighed, turning to walk back to Gryffindor tower. She could make it there in fifteen minutes if she hurried.

Wishing she'd chosen a slightly more ninja-like outfit, rather than her purple beanie and bright red knee socks underneath a matching coat, she pulled her headgear further down over her ears. She put one hand in her coat pocket, curling cold fingers around her wand.

"Lumos," she whispered, and light shone from its tip, illuminating her path. The torches had all gone out after she'd dropped Terence back at the dungeons. In fact, the only light was coming from the windows – full moon, it was, and so a kind of sickly pale luminescence pooled in the corridor, but only barely enough to see by.

It was a cold night, to be one in the mood for drastic understatements. Most of the portraits she passed portrayed their subjects huddled closely together, sleeping fitfully, paintings with fireplaces overly crowded and ones without, bare. Mist blew from her lips with each exhale; her lips and nose were numb.

So that was Terence Selwyn. Second in line to the Selwyn fortune. Disgraced future Death Eater. He was a nice little boy, she decided, even if he was kind of bossy. And in possession of a few discriminative ideologies drilled into him from birth.

What fun.

Imogen rounded a corner, and promptly almost died of shock when a rat – a big one, too – scuttled over her left boot.

"Euch," she hissed, and skittered to the right, narrowly avoiding a particularly rattly-looking suit of armour. That would simply not do.

The thing scarpered off into the shadows, squeaking nastily. Well, not nastily. Squeaking normally. But Imogen had a thing about rats. She found them mighty gross, for a witch.

Her heart pounding, she grumbled and turned back to her path. Imogen stuck to the stone walls this time, making sure to shine the light carefully at each and every crevice so there couldn't be any more near-misses.

She was undisturbed for the next five minutes, the pale light of the full moon streaming in from windows situated every metre. The castle, she decided, was beautiful at night. If somewhat eerie. Its stonework was bathed in silver moonlight, surfaces melting in pools of mercury. There was no sound except for her own breathing (which was rather loud and nasal, considering the amount of dust embedded in the carpet upon which she trod, her proximity with said carpet, and distinct lack of tissues), the sort of silence that was almost like being folded in cotton wool.

Imogen actually liked the night hours, especially at Hogwarts. There was always some kind of trouble to be getting into. Her thoughts, once again, strayed to the Selwyn brothers. Marcus – it felt odd referring to him as that, but she supposed she had to, now – definitely needed her tutelage. That was for sure. He was bloody rubbish at spells. And the part of her that had brought stray cats home as a child had absolutely stuffed Terence under her metaphorical wing. Right under the feathers, was that boy. She thought of bringing Marlene along to the walk the next day – but pictured the other girl snapping at Terence and thought better.

She was about five minutes away from the Gryffindor tower when a howl cut through the night. Tortured and twisted beyond any kind of doubt, there was only one word in her mind: werewolf. Imogen had her palm pressed against the icy window pane in the time it took to breathe, lumos off, staring out into the dark grounds. Her eyes scanned the lip of the Forbidden Forest – nothing. It must have been close to the edge, that's all. There were all sorts of creatures in there, and none of them ever dared to come onto Hogwarts property.

She blew out a sigh of relief. "Merlin," she muttered, and pushed away from the window – and stayed very, very still when someone's heavy breathing sounded right behind her.

Imogen took one step forward, out of the moonlight, and spun round. Her wand brandished, she watched as the other person stumbled into the path of the window. She leapt forward – only to come face to face with a very nervous-looking Peter Pettigrew.

"Merlin mother of fu – oh shit. Oh shit." she panted, clutching her chest. "Peter, merlin."

"Gen," he replied, darting a quick glance over her shoulder, "you should go back to your dormitory. Now."

His urgent tone struck Imogen as odd. Very odd. "Uh," she said, following his line of sight to look behind her, "that's what I was doing."

Peter grabbed her by the shoulder in an uncharacteristically forceful gesture, steering her round. "I'll walk you back!" he said, falsely chipper.

"Bloody – oi!" she exclaimed, maybe a little too loudly, and wrenched her arm from his grip. "Don't manhandle me, Pettigrew. What's the matter?"

His nose twitched, and he made an odd nervous sound in the back of his throat. He beckoned frantically for her to follow him.

She hesitated only a moment. Then, realising that if she didn't kick her arse into gear and get moving she'd lose him, hurried forward. He managed to keep in front of her almost the entire way to Gryffindor tower, where their nerves, triggered by the silence of the castle, got the better of them, making them sprint the whole way up the stairs.

They leaned against the banisters together, panting heavily. Imogen tugged off her beanie and fanned herself with it. "The bloody hell was that all about?"

"Don't want to get a detention, 's all," he muttered, through gasping in great lungfuls of air.

"Since when do you care about detention?" she hissed.

"Since someone let a great bloody dog into the castle and Filch is out trying to catch it, that's when!"

"What?" Imogen snapped, incredulously, "someone let a dog in here? A Familiar?"

He gave her an odd little grin. "Something like that, yeah."

"You're being awfully secretive."

"Part of - " he coughed " - part of my charm?"

She laughed. "It was you who let the dog in, wasn't it?"

"Sirius had a more active role."

"Bloody Merlin," Imogen shook her head, turning to give the Fat Lady the password, "don't get yourselves strung up by your toes, please."

Peter clapped her on the back. "C'mon, Gen," he said jokingly, "what do you take us for, amateurs?"

"I'm not going to answer that."

*.*

The library was, probably, her least favourite place to study.

It was dusty – despite the way Madame Pince shrieked at the mere possibility of crumbs in her precious books, she rarely seemed to clean anything. There was always a thick layer of the stuff on every available surface, coating the heavy tomes and their shelves.

The lighting was too pale for her liking, too, mincing in from the grimy windows – tip-toeing rather than shining – illuminating parchment, washing everyone out until they looked like bedraggled imitations of themselves.

Or perhaps that was just her, since Lily had dragged her out of bed at seven o'bloody clock on a Sunday morning. Particularly since the weird, strangled howling from last night had kept her up into the wee hours of the morning.

"Why," Imogen moaned, rubbing at her temples, "am I here?"

Lily looked up from her work, shuffling the various leafs of parchment she held in her grasp. She'd bundled her hair into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck, a few tendrils escaping to frame her pretty face. "I need a study partner," she replied, "and I want to know what the bloody hell is going on with you and Black."

Imogen blanched. "Study?" she squeaked, rising slowly from her chair. "Why didn't you say – I'll just go and get my – cat, and, quills –"

"Immy." Lily said sternly. "Sit."

"Damn," she muttered, plonking back down dejectedly.

"Tell me. Everything."

Imogen decided she didn't like monosyllabic Lily. She was entirely too intimidating.

"There's nothing to tell," she said brightly, "really."

Lily raised one imperious eyebrow, smoothing away invisible creases in her work. Despite the horrific amounts of writing on each foot of parchment, no ink stained her fingers. "I know he kissed you, Immy."

"On the cheek. And – oh, bloody hell, did Marlene tell you? I'm going to murder –"

"Marlene didn't tell me, Potter did."

"Well – wait," Imogen paused, narrowing her gaze at the redhead, who was gazing mutinously at the space in front of her nose as if willing her words to be sucked right back between her teeth, "since when do you and James get along?"

"We don't get along. We chat." Lily cleared her throat.

"When?" Imogen was having a hard time believing she was finding this out from Lily – last year, James wouldn't have been able to keep his big gob shut if Evans, girl of my dreams had even deigned to look in his direction, let alone chat.

"From time to time."

"Well –" she started, propping her elbows on the desk, but her friend interrupted.

"I want details, Immy. What's up with you and Black?"

"Nothing. He's just acting bloody weird, alright?"

"Weird."

"Yes! Very."

"So, what," Lily remarked, "Sirius Black carries you from third floor to the Common Room, kisses you goodnight, and there's nothing going on?"

Imogen grimaced. Slid lower in her chair until only the tip of her button nose was showing. "Nothing," she squeaked.

"Imogen Kathleen Waters," Lily intoned, her voice seething and low, "do not lie to me."

"I'm not!"

"He waltzed into the Common Room with you over his shoulder – not to mention you were both gone for three hours –"

"I was having an episode –"

"A sexcapade –"

"Shut up!" Imogen shrieked, sparking the interest of several students sitting around them. Quieter, she whispered, "Lily. You're being ?"

Her friend drummed slender fingers atop the desk surface. Her emerald green eyes were slitted, in a fashion that rather reminded Imogen of Genghis Khan's right before she made to pounce. "Something happened. You saw his face when he found out you went for Greene. Bloody Greene, of all people."

"What's wrong with Greene?" Imogen asked defensively. "He's – he's nice!"

A smile quirked the edges of Lily's lips. "He's a prat, Immy. An absolute cocking prat. But," she added, rolling up her parchment, "that's not the point. The point is that Black doesn't get jealous. He doesn't get threatened by other blokes, does he?"

Moodily, Imogen nodded. "'S'pose not," she muttered, wisely deciding not to raise the issue of Lily deducing Sirius' inner nuances.

"And yet. He got bloody jealous the other night."

"Lils –"

"Oh, come on, Immy!" Lily exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "Pretty damned obvious, it was. Ask the boys. Ask King."

"What's Gus got to do with it?" Imogen said incredulously, slumping forward. The whole thing – too weird. Being sassed by pompous Pureblood Slytherins? No problem. A boy supposedly showing interest in her? Merlin, no.

"King is in a brilliant position, when you think about it." Lily replied, casually waving her wand so that a length of bright blue ribbon shot from its tip, and tied itself around the roll of parchment in her hand. She tucked it into her bag. "I mean; he's best friends with the Marauders, and best friends with you –"

"Gus is best friends with everyone –"

"Exactly what I'm saying! He can," at this, Lily made several swirly gestures with her hands, looming over the table like a – well, like a witch at her cauldron, "see everyone."

Imogen frowned, propping her chin in her hands. She tapped her fingertips against her cheekbones. "Like, puppeteer type thing?"

"Yes! Yeah, I'm saying he can pick up on this type of thing. Because he knows all."

"You are so weird."

"And you are so gagging for Black's giant –"

"Stop! Stop stop stop."

Lily broke off, laughing, and leaned back in her chair. She sighed, shaking her head. "Not sorry."

"I need better friends." Imogen quipped.

"Who'd take you?" she retorted, sharp as a tack, as always. "We're all you've got in the way of amigos, Immy."

"Well I need better amigos, then," the blonde shot back, "look at you! Not a poncho in sight. I'm disappointed, truly."

"No ponchos, but I'm fairly sure King would have some maracas."

"Aaaand we come full circle." Imogen groaned, slumping forward. "What makes you think Gus has noticed anything? What makes you think I want to know?"

"Well," Lily pressed the pad of her thumb against her lip, "why don't you just ask?"

She tipped her head back dramatically. "Ughhhhhhhh." she grumbled. "Nooooo."

"Well, it's either that… or you tell me where you where last night."

Imogen snapped her head back up. "You were asleep." she accused.

"Clearly I wasn't," she intoned, "because I remember you traipsing in at bloody quarter past twelve last night."

"I just – I needed to get out." She said, lamely.

Lily arched an eyebrow. "I noticed, yeah. You practically hoovered up your tea last night, then buggered off to who-knows-where – on his birthday! Your brother's birthday – and I know how hard it is but you promised we'd do this together –"

"Lils," Imogen reassured, "Lils, it's alright. I'm sorry."

Her friend reached across the table and clasped their hands together, her expression wholly sad. "You always try to do this alone, Immy."

"I know," Imogen mumbled, guilt rising in her throat. To be perfectly honest, that hadn't been the sole reason for her disappearance after dinner.

Sitting across from Sirius had been… awkward, to say the least. Particularly when she could still feel the burn of his lips on her cheek from the other night. That, and his eyes hadn't strayed from her the entire time. He'd watched her with an avid sort of curiosity – like he was trying to think something through, something that had her Imogen, of course, had ignored him, considering the fact that she was a bloody coward when it came tofeelings.

So she'd leapt up and hightailed it out of the Great Hall, ignoring James' queries of her destinations. And as soon as she'd reached the little closet on the Astronomy Tower that locked from the inside, she'd remembered that, as of that morning, her little brother would have been eleven years old.

"You don't have to." Lily pleaded. "Marlene and I looked everywhere, Immy. That's time we could have all spent together, talking. Healing."

"I'm sor –"

"That is not good enough." Lily practically snarled, anger flaring up in her emerald eyes like fire, sudden and hot. "I will not have a repeat of fifth year, do you hear me? I won't see you walking around like a fucking ghost all the bloody time –"

Imogen clutched her hand tight, threading their fingers together hard enough to hurt. "I won't," she said hoarsely, memories of her previous year at Hogwarts and the permanent hollowness that had plagued her rising up like a tide, "OK? I promise you, I won't."

"You are so important to me, alright?" Lily whispered. "To us. To the boys. James would go to the absolute limits for you, Remus and Peter would protect you with their lives and Sirius –"

"Sirius'd do the same. He's a mate. Really," she said sternly, "I'm done talking about that. All of that. I'd like to get this essay done on time, for once."

Lily gave a weak smile. "OK," she relented, squeezing Imogen's hand once more, "OK."

"Lily?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."


End file.
